


Arkadia

by HawthorneWhisperer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 06:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 100
Words: 72,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6743683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawthorneWhisperer/pseuds/HawthorneWhisperer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drabble collection, originally posted to tumblr.  Mostly bellarke and probably mostly smutty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The truth is in the drugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anon request: "I called you while I was tripping on laughing gas from my surgery and I accidentally confessed my love to you, you’ve called back and I have no memory of this what are you talking about?

“Bellamy’s being weird,” Clarke whispered to Raven as they stood in Octavia’s kitchen.

 

“Seems like the usual mix of asshole and Mom as he always is,” Raven replied.

 

“No, he’s off.  It’s like...he’s avoiding me or something.  Ever since I got my wisdom teeth out.”

 

“Well, what did you say to him?”

 

“What do you mean, _what did I say to him?"_

 

Raven looked at her like she was crazy. “In the car.  I left you to go into the pharmacy and get your meds, and when I came back you were hanging up the phone.  Said you left him a message.”

 

Clarke’s stomach dropped.  “I did what?”

 

Raven’s eyes got big.  “Oh, shit.  Did you not remember that?  You weren’t super out of it, so I figured you were fine and didn’t confiscate your phone.”

 

Clarke pulled out her phone and scrolled back through her recent calls and there it was: the day of her wisdom teeth surgery, a thirty second call to one Bellamy Blake.   _Thirty seconds— what could I have said in thirty seconds to make him refuse to make eye contact with me?_ “Did you hear anything that I said?”  Raven shook her head no, and Clarke’s brain started whirring.  “Think you could distract him so I can steal his phone?”

 

“I could.  Or I could just hand it to you, because it’s right there,” Raven said, and reached across the counter to pick up Bellamy’s phone.

 

“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, and slipped out of the kitchen to lock herself in the bathroom.  She opened Bellamy’s voicemails, telling herself that this was pointless, that he would have deleted whatever drug-addled message she’d left him, but she was wrong— he kept it, all right.  She hit play and pressed the phone to her ear.  

 

“Hey Bellamy,” her voice giggled.  “I got my wisdom teeth out.”  Clarke winced at how sing-songy she sounded, but so far, nothing that would explain the cold shoulder she was getting.  “But you probably know that, but what you don’t know is that I love you.”  Clarke’s eyes got big, but unfortunately, her stoned self wasn’t done.  “I’ve loved you for so long, and I probably shouldn't tell you this, but fuck it, I’m high and I wanted you to know.  I love you, Bellamy Blake.  Oh, this is Clarke,” she clarified, and hung up.

 

Clarke closed her eyes in pain, because this was so much worse than she thought.  She’d been doing so well at hiding it, ever since she realized three months ago.  They’d been at another party just like this one, and Bellamy said something that made her laugh, and she just...knew.  It was pointless then, because he was with Gina and Clarke would not have done that to either of them.  She liked Gina, and she’d done her best to hide her relief when they broke up last month.  But apparently, Clarke-coming-out-of-anesthesia was far less discreet, and now...he hated her?  Was disgusted with her? That seemed possible, especially given his terse texts and the way he kept leaving rooms she entered all night.

 

Clarke slipped back into the kitchen and replaced Bellamy’s phone just as he walked in.  “Been looking for this,” he said, his jaw tight.  He took his phone and walked out the door without so much as a goodbye.

 

“Okay, I see it now.  Yeah, he’s avoiding you,” Raven supplied unhelpfully, and Clarke threw her a dirty look and followed him out.  

 

“Bellamy, wait!” she yelled as he walked across the street to his car.  “Are you ever going to talk to me again?”

 

He turned around and looked at her, but only for a second, like it physically pained him to hold eye contact.  “What?”

 

She slowed to a stop as she approached the curb.  “I’m sorry about— about the message.  I didn’t even remember leaving it.”

 

“It’s fine,” he said, but still his eyes kept roaming around, desperate to look anywhere but her.  “Wait,” he said, and _finally_ he looked at her, his eyes so brown her heartbeat picked up considerably.  “If you don’t remember leaving it, how do you know what you said?”

 

“I stole your phone,” she admitted.  “Listened to my message.  You could have said something, you know.”

 

“Like what, ‘when you’re high you think you’re in love with me?’”  He sounded angry, and Clarke couldn’t figure out why.  

 

“It was just the drugs,” she mumbled, lying through her teeth, but if her choice was lie or lose him, she’d lie, even if she didn’t understand why he was so upset.

 

His eyes flashed.  “Yeah, I know.  That’s the only way you’d love me, isn’t it?”

 

Clarke took a step back.  “What?  You think— Bellamy, wait,” she pleaded, as he turned away.  This was not how she imagined telling him.  She’d hoped for a quiet night, drinks, and a bashful admission that would lead to soft kisses and...well, it wasn’t supposed to be on a dingy street corner with anger in his eyes.

 

Bellamy turned back, his eyes wet.  “What, Clarke?  What could you possibly say that wouldn’t make me feel like a bigger idiot than I already am?  You know why Gina left me, right?  Because she knew I would always put you first, and god, she was right and I wish she wasn’t, because do you know what it feels like to know the only way you’d even _consider_ me is when you’re high?”

 

“I meant it,” she shouted, and this time it was Bellamy who took a step back.

 

“What?” he said, and the disbelief in his voice cut her like a knife.

 

“I meant it,” she repeated, and stepped towards him.  “I never meant to tell you that way, but I guess— I guess I decided I was sick of waiting.  I’m sorry that you thought— that you thought it wasn’t real, but it is.  I’ve loved you for awhile, and I know—”

 

But what she knew, she never got to say, because Bellamy’s lips crashed into hers.  He kissed her so fiercely that for a moment she wondered if this was all a dream, if she was still under anesthesia, but he was too real, too warm, too solid to be a figment of her imagination.  So she kissed him back and wound her fingers into his hair, because he was real and this was happening.

 


	2. Until the Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon requested bellarke sharing a compartment on Luna's oil rig and only having one bed.

 

 

 

 

It was the arrangement that made the most sense.  Octavia could barely look at him and Jasper had only just started not snarling in Clarke’s direction, and they were only offered two containers.  Bellamy had slept on the floor plenty of times on the Ark, so he gruffly shrugged off Clarke’s offer of the cot and dropped his jacket to the floor.  It would serve as a pillow for the night, not that he planned on getting much sleep.  Luna was their one plan, their only hope, and she was refusing to help.  Not harshly, but firmly and irrevocably.  She had offered them rooms for the night and safe passage back to the shore, but Clarke had a look on her face that Bellamy knew all too well, and he knew that tonight would be taken up by strategizing. **  
**

That was how Clarke operated, after all.  When she had a problem in front of her she didn’t rest until it was solved, and he loved that about her but sometimes, he wanted to sleep, not plot and scheme.  He propped himself against the opposite wall and let her start, and for the next three hours, they went around in circles.  Neither of them knew Luna well enough to play to her weaknesses, but that didn’t stop them from tossing out idea after idea until Clarke finally gave up, her brow furrowed with disappointment.  “You’re tired,” she said flatly, showing her unnerving knack of reading him better than she had any right to, because he hadn’t so much as yawned.  “Let’s get some rest and we can talk more in the morning.”

Clarke mechanically checked on the chip, as if worried it had grown legs and walked off in the hour since she’d checked it last.  He knew what her worries meant, knew what they implied, but Clarke had yet to mention Lexa to him so he decided not to push.  She would talk when she was ready, and he would be there for her because that was what they did— they bore witness to each other’s pain, even when it hurt.  Clarke blew out the candle and they laid down,  the soft noise of the ocean rising up from underneath them.  

Somehow, sleep found him quickly, but abandoned him just as fast.  At first, he couldn’t figure out what had woken him, because the container was silent as a tomb.  But then he heard it— a soft, choking sob, like it was being held back with considerable force.  “Clarke?” he asked softly into the darkness.

She was silent for so long he started to think he imagined her crying, but then she sniffled.  “Sorry,” she said brusquely.  “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” he lied.  “Did you— want to talk?”

“No, I’m fine,” she replied, but people who were fine didn’t cry into their pillows at night.  He would know.

Bellamy fumbled in the pitch dark until he felt the edge of her cot and sat down, careful not to sit on her legs.  Clarke reached for him— clutched at him, really— until he maneuvered himself to lay on his side.  “This okay?” he asked, and Clarke buried her face in his chest in response, so he wrapped his arms around her and held her as tight as he could when the sobs began again.  There was nothing he could say to take away her grief, but she held him through his pain and the least he could do was hold her through hers.  Her tears soaked through his shirt and he pressed his lips to the crown of her head until the sobbing subsided.  “Do you want me to move?” he whispered when the sobs were replaced by deep, shaky breaths.

Clarke shook her head so there he stayed, their limbs twined around each other, until morning came.

 


	3. Slaying the Patriarchy, One Dickbag at a Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon requested Clarke, Octavia, and Raven being LADY FRIENDS and SMASHING THE PATRIARCHY. Both of which happen to be my JAM.

_Raven Reyes **  
**_

_2:17pm_

_You know what they never tell you about grad school?_

_Raven Reyes_

_2:17pm_

_That every time you meet a guy and tell him about your research topic he will attempt to explain it to you_

_Raven Reyes_

_2:17pm_

_Even if he works in HR and knows dick all about mechanical engineering_

_Clarke Griffin_

_2:18pm_

_You’re telling me.  Half my patients ask to see someone more qualified and/or assume I’m the nurse_

_Clarke Griffin_

_2:18pm_

_I wouldn’t mind being mistaken for a nurse if they didn’t assume that Murphy was the doctor instead_

_Raven Reyes_

_2:19pm_

_It still baffles me how that creep got into nursing school_

_Clarke Griffin_

_2:19pm_

_I know, right?  He’s weirdly good at it, but he looks like a serial killer_

_Octavia Blake_

_2:19pm_

_i see your nurse and mansplaining and raise you both a “my sargeant assumed i’d want a desk job now that i’m married because naturally i’m planning on becoming a baby factory immediately”_

 

_Raven Reyes_

_2:19pm_

_HE DIDN’T_

_Octavia Blake_

_2:19pm_

_HE DID_

_Octavia Blake_

_2:19pm_

_i said i had to renew my hand-to-hand certification and he was surprised because “why would i need that anymore”_

_Octavia Blake_

_2:19pm_

_Indra and i stood there and made him keep explaining why i wouldn’t need it until he finally brought up me getting pregnant_

_Clarke Griffin_

_2:20pm_

_It takes some real brass balls to try and stare down Indra_

_Clarke Griffin_

_2:20pm_

_I’m not scared of anything and I find her terrifying_

_Raven Reyes_

_2:20pm_

_Incorrect you’re scared of your feelings for Bellamy Blake_

_Octavia Blake_

_2:21pm_

_LEAVE ME OUT OF THIS I CAN’T HEAR YOU LALALALALA_

_Clarke Griffin_

_2:21pm_

_*middle finger emoji*_

_Raven Reyes_

_2:21pm_

_Why the fuck did you write that out you could have literally used the emoji_

_Clarke Griffin_

_2:21pm_

_*middle finger emoji*_

_Octavia Blake_

_2:22pm_

_i will buy you both drinks at Grounders tonight if you stop_

_Raven Reyes_

_2:22pm_

_I’m gonna bet this dickbag $30 he can’t build a radio_

_Raven Reyes_

_2:22pm_

_So drinks will be on me_

_Clarke Griffin_

_2:22pm_

_You’re on._

_Octavia Blake_

_SLAYYYYYY_

_Raven Reyes_

_2:24pm_

_OH MY GOD HE JUST RAISED THE BET TO $50_

_Raven Reyes_

_2:24pm_

_So apps will be on me too_

_Clarke Griffin_

_2:25pm_

_Take him for all he’s worth, Reyes_

_Octavia Blake_

_2:25pm_

_i love you both so much_


	4. It's Nothing, I Swear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @booksarethebasisoflife requested Dr. Bellamy and randomly going into ER for dumb reasons Clarke, and I merged that with an anon request for a Trainwreck AU.

“Back again so soon?” Bellamy teased, drawing the curtain around Clarke’s bed closed. **  
**

“I missed you,” she flirted, despite her arm being in a sling.

Bellamy started filling out her chart and winked at her.  “I thought journalism was a desk job.”

“Not the way I do it,” she said, and Bellamy couldn’t help but smile.  He’d met her two months ago when she was doing a piece on overworked nurses and they’d…hit it off.  To put it mildly.

They’d damn near broken the bed in his apartment, to put it another way.  “So what was it this time?” he asked, switching out her IV bag.

“Can’t say.  Top secret,” Clarke laughed, and he wished he didn’t want her so much.  He didn’t do the casual thing, not anymore— not until her.  But she didn’t do relationships, and if he wanted her, he had to play by her rules.

And god, he wanted her, so play he did.  “What sort of top secret assignment ends with you with a dislocated shoulder?” he tsked, hoping to hide his very real fear.  He looked at her chart again and his heart lurched. “And you were in last week with a sprained ankle?  Jesus, Clarke, what does your editor have you  _doing?_ ”  Fear gripped him, because yeah, it was _just casual_ between them except it totally wasn’t, not for him, and he wasn’t sure how he would handle her being in real danger.

Clarke just laughed, entirely too at ease for his liking.  “It’s nothing dangerous, I promise.  I’m not tracking down a mob hit man or anything, just looking into extreme sports.”

“Nothing dangerous?” he scowled.  “Your visits to this hospital would say otherwise.”

“It’s fine,” she insisted, and smiled at him appealingly.  

Bellamy sighed, because he wanted to sit down next to her and hold her hand, but that would be against her rules and he still had four hours left on his shift, and the hospital frowned on nurses skipping out on their duties because the woman they were sleeping with got injured again.

“I’m off in four hours,” he said, “and you should be discharged by then.  I can drive you home, okay?”

“Are you planning on taking advantage of me while I’m hopped up on painkillers?” Clarke asked wryly.  “Because if you are, I’m totally fine with that.”

Bellamy forced himself to laugh along with her, because he knew the rules the first time he kissed her.   _No feelings, no strings._ It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now he was in too deep and had no way of getting out.  “Find me in the lobby at seven,” he instructed, and Clarke gave him a mock salute that brought a genuine smile to his face.

He was so, so screwed.  


	5. Meeting the (Almost) Dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon requested dad!Sinclair and ice mechanic.

Raven looked at her watch for the fifth time since the waitress showed them their table, her fingernails drumming against the white tablecloth.  “I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Roan said as soothingly as he could.  He trapped her hand with his and squeezed it gently.  “We got here a little early, after all.”  A little early was generous— they had arrived a full ten minutes before their reservation— but Roan saw no reason to antagonize his already-stressed girlfriend. **  
**

“You don’t— there he is,” Raven said, interrupting herself.  She stood and waved, and the man with curly salt and pepper hair waved back.

Roan stood and held out his hand after Raven had hugged him hello.  “Roan Glazer.  Nice to meet you, sir,” he said.  The _sir_ was probably a little over the top, but Raven had been a nervous wreck about him meeting her old advisor all day.  Which was a little insulting at first, since it implied that Sinclair for some reason _wouldn’t_ like him, but eventually he realized that Raven was looking for something he never thought she needed— approval.  Her mother was a mess and her father was MIA, so Sinclair was the closest thing she had to a parent aside from Abby Griffin.  As Roan had had Abby eating out of the palm of his hand for years before he even met Raven, she wasn’t a concern.  But Sinclair was an unknown quantity, so Roan was going to do something he rarely ever did: try.

“You can just call me Sinclair,” the other man said nicely enough, and they all sat down.

An awkward silence fell, but then Sinclair asked Raven something about her postdoc and she started talking, never more at ease than when she was talking about her work.  She glowed from the inside out, and even if Roan understood barely one word in three out of her mouth, he loved her like this.  She was happy and passionate and utterly in control, so halfway through her explanation of the problems she’d had with building a battery (something that had bothered her for months) Roan slipped his hand under the table and found her free hand.  He laced their fingers together and Raven sent a brief smile in his direction.

She excused herself to use the bathroom shortly after they ordered, and Roan found himself almost at a loss for what to say.  “She’s brilliant, isn’t she?” he said after a few moments had passed.

Sinclair smiled fondly.  “She is.  Best student I’ve ever had.”

“She speaks very highly of you.  I’m glad you could make it to dinner.”

The smile slowly faded from Sinclair’s face, replaced by a solemn look.  “She must be serious about you if she wanted me to meet you,” he said.  “Do I need to be worried?”

Roan met his gaze without flinching.  “Not at all,” he vowed, and it was the truth.  He never saw himself as the marrying sort until he met Raven, and now he’d buy a house in the suburbs and get a dog with her if that’s what she wanted.

Raven walked back to the table and Roan switched subjects, asking Sinclair about the conference he was attending.  Raven smiled at him and he grinned back, because he loved this woman more than he could possibly say.  He loved her so much he would sit through an entire dinner of nerd talk without complaint, because that was what she loved and he loved her.

 


	6. Miss Congeniality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon requested a Miss Congeniality bellarke AU.

“Careful, Princess,” Bellamy’s voice purred in her ear.  “Remember you’re wearing heels.”

 

“Couldn’t possibly forget, Rebel,” she grunted under her breath as she climbed the ladder up to the lighting rig.  She could practically hear his smile through the earpiece, and she made a mental note to ask Kane for an assignment that put Bellamy in the role of bait next time.  Preferably something that would require him to wear pantyhose ( _ pantyhose, _  of all the horrors in the world) and spike heels.

 

It wasn’t that Clarke didn’t like dressing up— she did, when the occasion called for it, like when she was hitting up bars to find someone to take her home.  She knew the effect her body (well, mostly her breasts) had on people.  Even Bellamy— Bellamy, the consummate professional— had done a double take when she emerged from the trailer, her usual sensible jeans-and-blouse combo replaced by a tight cocktail dress and bright red lipstick.  Clarke saw the appeal of dressing up for yourself, but she still wasn’t sure how she felt about beauty pageants as an institution.  She was all for women doing whatever the fuck they wanted, but when that included lining up in bikinis to let men rank them in order of hotness she had to work pretty hard to understand the appeal.  

 

But she had come to love every single contestant for who they were: kind, thoughtful, determined women, from Luna’s gentle kindness to Raven’s fierce intelligence.  Clarke wasn’t about to let Cage Wallace put them in danger just so he could seize control of his father’s semi-exploitive organization.  

 

“Target is over stage left,” Bellamy told her.  “His only exit his behind you, so he might rush you.  Backup is standing by.”

 

“Roger that,” she whispered.  Clarke paused on the catwalk to kick off her heels and rip the slit in her evening dress up to her thigh so she would have more mobility.  Bellamy was definitely going undercover next time and she was sitting in the surveillance van, drinking coffee and monitoring the situation in comfortable clothes.  She eased her handgun from the thigh holster and trained it on Cage.  “Hold it right there,” Clarke said.  

 

Cage looked at her with confusion that quickly melted into rage.  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.

 

“Stopping you,” she said evenly.  “You’re under arrest, by the way.”

 

Just as Bellamy predicted, Cage tried to rush her.  She didn’t want to risk a shot ricocheting and hitting one of the girls down below (Harper was answering a question about world peace) so she spun and stepped out of his way, tripping him and letting his momentum carry him to the metal catwalk as she holstered her piece.  But Clarke had underestimated either Cage’s hand-to-hand prowess or his all-consuming desire to run a beauty pageant, because he kicked her feet out from under her and then they were grappling with each other while the catwalk swayed dangerously.

 

Clarke managed to get the upper hand while Bellamy frantically requested a sit rep through her earpiece, but then Cage had his hands around her neck and she couldn’t breathe, much less respond. Cage shifted his weight and suddenly Clarke was on her side and then the catwalk dropped away from beneath her.  Her stomach plunged as she rolled off the catwalk, and she clawed her hands out wildly, searching for purchase.  She caught the edge with her fingertips and hung on, the audience’s gasps turning to screams as people realized what was happening.  The metal shook with Cage’s thundering footsteps and Clarke breathed a slight sigh of relief— he was running rather than sticking around to finish the job.  A fall from this height probably wouldn’t kill her, but she’d rather not break both of her legs.

 

She tried to redouble her grip and pull herself up, but it was no use.  She couldn’t get her hands around enough of the edge to have leverage, and her arms started to shake with the strain of holding on.

 

Just then, black combat boots appeared in her line of vision and a familiar olive-skinned hand reached out for her.  Clarke used the last of her strength to grab his forearm and Bellamy pulled her up.  Her feet hit the catwalk and Bellamy’s arms went around her at almost the same time.  She collapsed against his chest, adrenaline making her limbs tremble, and his lips pressed against the top of her head.   _ Well, this is new, _  she thought incongruently while Bellamy whispered  _ you’re okay, you’re okay  _ over and over, more to himself than to her.  

 

“You got him?” she asked, because it wasn’t like Bellamy to stop in the middle of a mission to hug her.  It wasn’t a bad thing, per se, but it wasn’t really protocol either.

 

“Indra and O took him down the second he climbed off the ladder.  I told you he was going to rush you,” Bellamy said, the but his scolding was somewhat undermined by the worry in his tone and the way his hand kept stroking her hair.

 

“I had him,” Clarke protested, Bellamy’s heart pounding under her ear.

 

“Sure you did,” he said, the smile back in his voice.

 

Clarke forced herself to break their embrace because if she didn’t do it now, she might not do it...ever.  It felt too good to be wrapped in his arms, and  _ having feelings for her partner  _ was really not part of Clarke’s life plan.  “Next time, you’re the bait.  And you’re wearing a thong whether it’s necessary for your character or not,” she said as grumpily as she could manage.  Her body felt cold without his warmth, but she fought the instinct to burrow back into his arms.

 

Bellamy looked down fondly at her and nodded.  “Let’s get you changed, Princess,” he said, and this time, it didn’t sound like her code name.  It sounded intimate, in a way that wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

 

“You don’t think I should stay like this?” she joked in an attempt to steer their conversation to safer waters, gesturing to the skin-tight ice blue dress that plunged dangerously at her neckline.  “I think this could be my new uniform.”

 

Bellamy’s eyes darkened, just slightly, but then his hungry expression was replaced with a crooked grin.  “Criminals wouldn’t stand a chance,” he replied.

 

Clarke’s cheeks heated up, but before she could do something dumb— like ask if he wanted to get a drink once all their paperwork was done— Indra poked her head up from the ladder.  “You okay?” she asked, and when Clarke nodded Indra jerked her chin down.  “Then we’ve got a scumbag to transport and several dozen very upset beauty queens to deal with.  Let’s go,” she barked.

 

“Coming,” Clarke said, and glanced up at Bellamy.

 

“After you,” he said and Clarke headed for the ladder, feeling his eyes on her the whole way.

 


	7. Bad Ideas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon requested bellarke office sex with Boss!Bellamy.

Hiring Clarke Griffin was either the best or worst idea of Bellamy Blake’s life.

 

He fought with her constantly, and by that he didn’t mean they fought a lot.  It meant that if they were within five feet of each other, they were probably disagreeing with only two exceptions to that rule.  The first exception were those times when their goals dovetailed and they switched from adversaries into seamless partners, like with the exhibit on Ancient Greek statues (her suggestion of having small replicas that kids could paint with the original garish colors was a stroke of genius, something he admitted to her in a moment of weakness that she still held over his head).  

 

The other exception to the always-fighting rule, of course, was when they were having sex.

 

Correction: when they were having what was quite possibly the best sex of his life.

 

It always went the same way: either she would storm into his office or he would storm into hers, they’d yell for a while and then one of them would kiss the other, and from there it was a race to tear their clothes off and fuck. Bellamy didn’t really want to examine what this meant, or why he always seemed to find something to fight with her about when the rest of the offices were empty.

 

Or why, when he was inside of her, he felt something for her that was definitely not annoyance, anger, or even lust.  He really, really, really didn’t want to examine why his heart would flip over in his chest on the rare occasions she smiled at him, or why he felt compelled to cradle her face in his hands when she was sitting astride him, her hips rocking back and forth.  He was as deep inside of her as he had ever been and he never wanted this moment to end.  Clarke pressed a sloppy kiss to his lips and leaned forward, her breath hot on his ear.  “Harder,” she ordered, and he could hear the grin in her voice.

 

Bellamy anchored his hands on her hips and drove up into as hard as he could, his mouth attaching to her collarbone.  Clarke moaned and his heart did that thing again, but he couldn’t bear to think about what that meant, so he lost himself in the way she felt around him instead.

 

Hiring Clarke Griffin was definitely the best and worst idea of his life.

 


	8. Sudden Realizations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon asked for fireman!Bellamy and paramedic!Clarke, with Bellamy frantically trying to find Clarke.

“Where are you going?” Bellamy asked as he entered the station. Murphy was climbing up into the passenger seat and Clarke was rounding the bus, headed for the driver’s side.

“Residential call. Cooking burns,” she said, opening the door.

“And they don’t need us?”

“Doesn’t sound like there’s a fire, just boiling water,” Clarke said and closed the door behind her. “Guess you’ll just have to miss out on the fun,” she teased through the open window, and then they were pulling out of the firehouse, sirens blaring.

Bellamy went upstairs to the lounge where Miller was slouched on the sofa, texting. “Clarke got a call,” Miller said without looking up. “Cooking accident.”

“Why are you telling me that?” Bellamy grumbled.

Miller snorted. “So we’re still doing this, huh?”

“Doing what?”

“Denial,” Lincoln supplied from the kitchen unhelpfully. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only person in this whole station who doesn’t know how you feel about her.”

“She’s my friend,” Bellamy protested, but then the alarm went off and Harper came sailing in.

“Meth house explosion,” she yelled over the alarm as they hurried down to the rig, throwing on their equipment. “1138 Mount Weather Ave.”

Miller and Lincoln exchanged glances and took their places on the rig. Bellamy hopped into the seat beside her as Harper turned over the engine, her jaw tight. She kept cutting her eyes at him while they tore through the narrow streets towards their destination. “What is it?” he sighed.

“You didn’t— you didn’t recognize the address?”

“Should I?”

They flew past 13th Street and he could see a pillar of smoke rising two blocks ahead. “Clarke and Murphy were called to the same place about ten minutes ago,” Harper said, and if she said anything else, Bellamy couldn’t hear her over the roaring in his ears. His stomach plummeted and his vision tunneled.

Harper stopped the rig but Bellamy was out before it had even finished moving. This wasn’t protocol, but he couldn’t think about anything except Clarke. If she was dead— if he’d lost her, he wasn’t sure how he’d go on. She was his friend, sure, but she was also…more. She was Clarke, and in a moment of awful clarity he realized exactly what she meant to him.

She was Clarke, and Clarke was _everything_.

Murphy was standing near a pile of debris on what was the front lawn, struggling to lift a piece of rubble. Dimly, Bellamy heard Miller shouting for him and the hose turning on, but he didn’t give a damn. “She’s under here!” Murphy yelled as he approached. “But I can’t lift—”

Bellamy skidded to a stop at Murphy’s side and grabbed the plywood. It was heavy, but within seconds Bellamy had it flipped off to the side and found her. She was pinned underneath another piece of the roof, her hair and skin covered in dust and dirt from the explosion. But she was awake— scared, but awake. And alive.

Murphy started shifting more rubble and Bellamy crouched down, gently sweeping a lock of hair back. “We’ll get you out of here,” he said softly, and her eyes started to lose their panicked look.

“A little help here?” Murphy called, and Bellamy stood to help him dig her out. Clarke was able to move her legs out of the way when they lifted the last chunk of roof, and Bellamy was at her side the second she sat up.

“You okay?” he asked, and she nodded.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice hoarse and shaky. “Murphy— he can patch me up. Go, your crew needs you,” she said, and it took every ounce of willpower he had to stand up. Panic still pumped through his veins and he blindly took his place at the hose next to Lincoln.

“Owner was the only occupant of the house,” Lincoln said, nodding towards the skinny man standing on the sidewalk, looking shellshocked. “Called for a bus when he burned himself, but left it cooking when they got here.”

Bellamy clenched his jaw and fought the instinct to go over and pound the tweaker into the asphalt. Lincoln sent him a careful look, then let his gaze settle on Clarke. “She’s going to be okay,” Lincoln said softly. “She’s okay.”

Bellamy took a deep breath and let it leak out slowly. “I know,” he said, but he wasn’t sure if he would be, because everything was different now.

He was in love with Clarke, and there was no going back.


	9. A Weekend with Emma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon asked for bellarke caring for a flour baby a la high school home ec classes and bickering, but I made it a real baby and then ended up going way off book instead.

If Miller hadn’t been his best friend, Bellamy might have killed him. **  
**

Actually, he probably would kill him, best friend or no.

The weekend was going to be stressful enough, because spending Friday through Sunday with an eighteen month old was plenty of challenge in and of itself, even though Emma loved him almost as much as she loved her dads.  But somehow, Miller had accepted Bellamy’s offer of babysitting and Monty had accepted Clarke’s, and neither of them realized until he and Clarke were standing on their front porch, thoroughly confused.  Bellamy could have forgiven him for that, but when Monty suggested they watch Emma _together_ , the goddamn traitor _agreed_.

Look, Bellamy wasn’t unreasonable.  He understood that his friend group would have to expand as people grew up and gained significant others.  He’d accepted Lincoln as a staple in Octavia’s life, and befriending Monty was no problem.  But this year Monty’s college friend Clarke moved to town, and Clarke was…a challenge for Bellamy.  In many respects.

“We should go for a walk,” Clarke said from the floor.  “It’s beautiful outside.”  Emma pulled herself up using Clarke’s hair as leverage and started walking towards Bellamy.

“Be my guest,” Bellamy grumped from the couch even as he leaned forward to tickle Emma under her chin.  He knew he needed to get it together, but he couldn’t help it.  Clarke left him off balance, with her stupid opinions and her stupid hair and her stupid blue v neck shirt that showed off her stupid perfect cleavage.

Okay, maybe he had a crush.  But it was fine.  He was an adult.  He could handle a crush.  Right?

Clarke rolled her eyes.  “Come on, it’s a nice day and her dinner time isn’t for awhile yet.  We’ll walk to the park down the block and let her tire herself out.”

 _Hope you’re looking forward to bath duty then,_ he thought, but instead he forced himself to shrug.  “Okay, sure.”  He flashed her what he hoped was an agreeable smile and she gave him a crooked one in return.  He readied the diaper bag while Clarke got Emma into the stroller, and then they were walking down the sidewalk of a suburban street to the park.

Three separate sets of neighbors sent them benevolent smiles before he said something.  “What’s going on?” he asked.

Clarke appeared to be trying not to grin.  “Pretty sure they think we’re a family,” she stage-whispered.

“Hmph,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say.

Clarke sent him a sidelong look.  “Okay, what’s your deal?  If we’re going to be spending the weekend together, you can at least be honest.  What did I do to you?”

“Nothing,” he sighed.  He unbuckled Emma and let her scamper off towards the swings.  “Sorry, I’m just— you didn’t do anything.  This is all me.”

“Yeah?” she asked, lifting Emma into the swing.  “Because you’ve always been…pretty damn cold to me.  It sucks, actually.”

His heart twisted and he scrubbed a hand over his face.  “I’m sorry.  I promise, it’s not your fault.  I’m just…I’m a dick.  That’s all it is, really.”  He pushed Emma and she squealed.  Clarke made a silly face at her and Emma started laughing as she swung back and forth, and he couldn’t help but smile.  “I’ll be nice this weekend, okay?  I promise.”

“Okay,” she said, and his smiled deepened.  

Emma loved the swings, but eventually she got impatient and started wriggling in the internationally recognized toddler sign for _get me down before I throw a fit._  Bellamy lifted her up and held her high in the air for a moment, and her gummy smile returned.  When he brought her back down to earth, Clarke was watching him with an odd expression on her face.  “What?” he asked, but this time he managed to sound friendly.

“Nothing,” she said, but her eyes were dancing.  “You’re just— you’re not who I thought you were, are you?”

Emma took off towards the slide and he followed, Clarke at his side.  “What, you mean a grumpy dick?”

Clarke laughed, and he knew he would do anything she asked if it meant she’d laugh like that again.  “Yeah.  That.  But I’m glad you’re not,” she said, and Bellamy amended his previous vow.  

He wasn’t going to kill Miller, he was going to throw him a goddamn parade.


	10. Just A Little Friendly Competition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Chash's headcanon of Bellamy and Roan as warring RAs with Raven and Clarke as their residents.

Roan met her the night he had to babysit the grilled cheese stand. **  
**

It was a simple enough fundraiser: students from his dorm volunteered to make grilled cheese and sell them after bar close at a dollar a sandwich.  They usually made enough to cover expenses and pad the dorm fund for activities, with a little leftover for whatever charity they voted on for the month.  He was sitting outside with Clarke hawking their wares when Bellamy Blake walked up, a leggy brunette at his side.

He should have figured Blake would show— Clarke was like catnip for him.  It was quite possibly the most painfully obvious crush he’d ever seen, and Roan had been an RA for freshman for three years. He’d seen his fair share of pining, but Blake put them all to shame.

Bellamy lifted his chin in acknowledgment as he approached, and Roan fought to control his eye roll.  Riling Blake up was entirely too easy to do, but Roan liked the guy.  Mostly.  “Hungry?” he asked.

Clarke wiggled her eyebrows.  “Best grilled cheese a dollar can buy,” she wheedled, and the woman with Bellamy waved at her.  

“So this is why your lame ass didn’t go to Miller’s party?” she asked Clarke.

“It’s my turn to man the stand,” Clarke said easily.  “Just doing my part.  Oh, Raven, I don’t think you know Roan.  He’s one of the RA’s.”

Raven barely spared him a glance.  “Yeah, hi.  Did Monty sign up for this dumb thing too?”

“Hey,” Roan protested, but Raven tossed her long ponytail over her shoulder and ignored him.  He sat up a little straighter because women didn’t usually react like this.  He knew how he looked— dangerous, but not _too_ dangerous— and he was used to…a certain type of attention from women.  But Raven looked right through him, which piqued his interest.

What?  He liked a challenge.

“Monty’s doing the grilling,” Clarke explained.  “He should be out with the next batch soon enough.”

Blake handed over two dollars to Clarke with a shy smile that had Roan sighing in exasperation.  That drew Blake’s attention as he handed one sandwich to Raven.  “By the way, October is my month to set up activities.  Think you’re up for a tug-of-war contest?” Blake asked.

“You really think you weaklings can beat us?” Roan taunted.  Raven looked his way, and he smirked.  But to his annoyance she didn’t react,  just turned back to her conversation with Clarke.

“It’s worth a shot,” Blake replied, his eyes still on Clarke.

Roan took advantage of the fact that apparently everyone in this conversation was looking at Clarke to study Raven a little more. She was pretty, except for when she smiled— then she was radiant.

“You’re on.” 


	11. Just A Little Friendly Competition, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to chapter 10.

“So we’re really doing this, huh?” Clarke asked.  She was sitting on the lawn in front of Polis, the rest of her hall (well, those she managed to talk into signing up to participate) stretching as they prepared for their tug-of-war against Arkadia Hall. **  
**

Raven pulled her arm across her chest to stretch out her tricep.  “It would appear so.  I kind of want to get a ruler and go measure their dicks just to get it over with.”

Clarke tipped her head back and laughed just as Bellamy started walking over.  Her heart rate picked up, and then he smiled, and it picked up even _more_.  “Ready to lose?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

“Hey, I wouldn’t be so cocky if I were you,” she threw back, even though what she really wanted to do was run her hands through those unruly curls.  “We’ve got Monty.”

“You really think Monty is going to make a difference?”

“Physics major.  We’ve got science on our side.”

“We’ve got Reyes.  So we’re tied, science-wise.”

Raven stuck her tongue out at Clarke as Roan walked up.  Shirtless.  Clarke choked back a laugh, and didn’t fail to note the way Raven’s eyes widened slightly at the sight.  Clarke had gotten used to Roan’s ridiculous physique— it was a side effect of passing him in the hall on his way to or from the shower— but her friend hadn’t.  She also noted the way Roan was determinedly not looking at Raven and bit her lower lip.  “I don’t know, Blake.  I think you kind subtract any science advantage.  What’d you end up taking, remedial math?” Roan asked, crossing his arms across his chest.  He was definitely doing this on purpose, and it was definitely working on Raven.

Bellamy narrowed his eyes, because he was terrible at not taking Roan’s bait.  “Statistics, and that’s math, not science,” he bit out.

“Okay, okay, how about we get this going?” Clarke interrupted before Roan could respond.  Bellamy held out his hand and she let him pull her up, and maybe she over corrected a little and fell against his chest, but that was an accident.

Mostly.

Roan held out a hand to Raven but she ignored him and stood up on her own.  Clarke saw the flash of interest in his eyes and grinned to herself, because Raven was playing this exactly right.


	12. Puppies!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon requested Bellamy taking Octavia to a pet store where Clarke works. I played fast and loose with the ages, so just pretend Octavia is around 10 years younger than Bellamy.

Working at an animal shelter had it’s advantages— puppy and kitten snuggles whenever she wanted them, a chance to do some good in the world, and good hours— but also its disadvantages.  Like days like today, where Clarke was ready to keel over from boredom at the front desk. **  
**

“You can only get one, O,” said the guy who just walked in.  He had a girl skipping along at his side, maybe ten or eleven.  Clarke eyed him up and decided he was a much older brother, because he didn’t look quite old enough to be her father.  He was Clarke’s age, or maybe a little older.  He looked up and made eye contact with her across the counter.  “Hey— we’re here to adopt a puppy?”

Clarke smiled at the girl next to him, who was practically dancing with excitement.  “Well, you’ve come to the right place.  Have you ever adopted from the Arkadia Shelter before?”  The man shook his head and Clarke came out from behind the counter.  “Okay, well, we’ve got quite a few dogs available today— some are adults, but we did just get a litter of puppies.”  She headed towards the kennels and they followed her through the swinging door.  “The advantage of adults is we know quite a bit more about their personalities, which ones do well with kids or other pets, that sort of thing.  Do you have other pets?”

“Nope,” he answered.  “It’s just me and Octavia.  And our mom, but she works…a lot.  So mostly just us.”

“He’s Bellamy, by the way,” Octavia supplied.  “He’s bad at talking to girls.”

“Shut up, O,” he grumbled, and his ears turned red.  

Clarke looked away to hide her smile.  “I’m Clarke,” she said when she had control over her face and slowed to a stop.  “And you’re sure you want a puppy?  Not an adult dog?”

“She’s got her heart set on training a puppy.”

“Okay, well, here’s our litter— we’re not sure what they are, exactly, but the vet said they look like a German shepherd mix.”

“Are those dangerous?” he asked, his dark eyes serious.

“Not if you train them right,” she said, and let Octavia into the kennel.  She squealed as the puppies ran to great her, their little yips echoing off the cement walls.  “So you’re not…as excited as your sister?” she asked him.

He sighed, but his expression was soft and fond.  “No, I am.  I just— it’s gonna be more work, you know?  But it makes her happy, so…I’m happy.”

“That’s sweet,” she said without thinking, and he looked at her with a smile that made her heart pound.

“Yeah?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Clarke shrugged in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner.  “Yeah.”

“So…if I asked for your number, would that also be sweet?”

“I thought you were supposed to be bad at talking to girls.”

“She’s eleven.  She doesn’t know shit.”

Clarke laughed so loudly even Octavia looked back at them.  “Yeah.  That would— that would be great,” she said, and then determinedly looked back at the puppies.  

Her day just got a whole lot more interesting.


	13. Snowflakes and Gears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @there-is-a-light-i-promise requested ice mechanic and soulmates.

Raven was twelve when it appeared— a small snowflake on the underside of her left wrist.  

 

“It’s your soulmark,” Finn explained the next day.  “It represents your soulmate.”  She usually turned to Finn about matters like this, her mother being mostly useless.  He was younger than her, but much more knowledgeable about the world.   That’s what happened when you had parents who paid attention to you.

 

“How am I supposed to know who it is?  Will he have the same one?” she asked.

 

“No, he’ll have one that represents you.”  Finn chucked a rock as far as he could into the river, and Raven hugged her knees to her chest.

 

“That’s stupid,” she said.  “This could mean anything.”

 

“That’s what's so cool— you get to figure out who your soulmate is, and this just...helps you along.”

 

“Do you have one?”

 

“Not yet,” Finn replied, his jaw tight.

 

For years, Raven tried to figure out what the snowflake meant.  She wanted it to mean Finn, but it never quite fit.  Finn was a warm summer day, not a winter storm.  There was nothing cold about him, nothing frozen— not even when he broke her heart.

 

After Finn and Wick, she stopped caring.  A soulmark only meant as much as you wanted it to, she decided, and she wasn’t going to let some hazy system of predestination rule her life.  She was Raven Fucking Reyes, goddammit, and she wasn’t going to marry someone because a tattoo said so.  She moved on with her life, and it wasn’t until she was twenty six that she thought about it again.

 

He was some suit, part of a team that had acquired Sinclair’s biotech company.  They were touring the lab, taking stock of their new investment, and her eyes happened to catch his.

 

And suddenly...she knew.  He was ice, he was snow, he was a winter storm that buried you with its power.  Everything about him radiated a cold, controlled purpose, and she wondered what sort of sick joke the universe was playing on her.  If he was her soulmate, she wasn’t having it.

 

It took another two years before a company Christmas party ended with Raven sitting on a bathroom counter, Roan deep inside of her.  And it was only after that he showed her his soulmark.

 

A tiny gear, right on the inside of his left wrist.

  
  



	14. Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon requested a Luna x Bellamy fic where Luna is pregnant with Derrick's baby. 
> 
> Semi-platonic lunamy, no bellarke.

**  
**Bellamy was the first one to notice.  The Exodus had begun, the long, slow walk to the valley that Raven had calculated would be sheltered from the fallout.  It was miles away through rough terrain, and they had thousands of people with them— young, old and sick included.  At first, he assumed Luna’s pallor was because of Derrick.  Clarke had the same look, the same faraway gaze and distracted manner.  The only help for that was time, so he gave her the space she needed. **  
**

But then one night he saw her turn away from the firepit in disgust, her nose wrinkling when Miller staked a rabbit he’d caught and set it to cook.  Bellamy found her vomiting in the bushes a few yards away, her hand holding her unruly hair behind her neck.  He took over for her, holding her hair back while she heaved.  “How far along are you?” he asked when she stood and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Three months,” she said shakily.  “It’s— it’s all I have left of him.”

“You shouldn’t be walking.  Tell Abby; she’ll find you a place in a cart,” he urged.

Luna shook her head.  “I can walk.  I’m pregnant, not dying.”  Her full lips quirked into a sad smile and he found himself grinning back.

The next morning he fell into step beside her, his gun clutched tight across his chest.  He saw her glance at it disapprovingly, and he shook his head.  “For protection against animals,” he clarified.  “Not people.”

Luna nodded, and that was how their friendship began.  She was kind, gentle in a way that reminded him of Gina.  He could talk to her, and he wondered if this was what friendship would have been like with Gina if he’d never kissed her.  Thinking about Gina still sent a shard of guilt into his heart, because she’d deserved so much more than a man whose heart belonged to someone else.

Bellamy knew what the gossip surrounding him andLuna said, but it didn’t matter because he knew the truth.  Luna was mourning Derrick and he was adrift, searching for purpose and redemption.  Together, they found an anchor, and that was all that mattered.

It seemed fitting to him that Luna’s child was the first one born in their valley.  Luna believed in peace, and maybe her child could live in a world unlike the one he’d seen so far.  It was their best chance— their only chance, really— to do better.  Her daughter was only a few hours old when he came to see her, ducking under the lintel of her cabin.  “I hear you have a daughter,” he said, and she smiled at him from her bed.

“I do.”  She was radiant like this, happy in a way he’d never seen her save for a few moments on the rig before he and his friends blew it all to hell.  “She has his nose.”

Bellamy sat carefully on the edge of the bed and let Luna place her in his arms.  She was tiny, even smaller than Octavia had been.  Or maybe he was just bigger now, more aware of the life he held in his hands.  “What’s her name?”

Luna laid back against the pillows.  “Vita.”

“That means—”

“–life, I know,” she finished.  “It seemed to fit her.”

Bellamy looked down into Vita’s dark eyes.  “It does,” he said.

And it did.


	15. Remembrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @estrelune requested Bellamy cutting Clarke's hair while they talk about Lexa and Gina.

It seemed like a silly indulgence, what with the world ending and all, but Raven had barred her from the control center, loudly announcing that her fallout calculations were going to take at least six more hours and Clarke pacing in the background wouldn’t make them go faster and just might make her lose her mind. **  
**

She went to see her mother in the med bay, but Abby sent her away, claiming that she didn’t need another hand and _you deserve a moment to yourself._  For a few minutes Clarke felt panic building in her chest, because time to herself meant time to think, and thinking lead to those last moments in Lexa’s bed and then in hers, one memory gilded with happiness and the other drenched in sorrow and blood.  Bellamy rounded a corner just as the panic started to claim her, and she seized on the distraction.  “I need you to cut my hair,” she blurted.

Bellamy drew up short.  “What?”

“My hair— I need to cut it, but I can’t reach the back.  I need someone to do it for me.”  It was longer than she’d realized, and in Polis it felt right, but now...now she didn’t want to be that girl anymore, because that girl loved someone who was gone.

“Uh...yeah, sure.  I think I saw some scissors in the mess— why don’t you get some water and I’ll go find them?  Meet you out by Raven’s gate?”

“Water?”

“Trust me.  I used to cut O’s…” his face fell, the reminder of his sister sudden and unpleasant.  

“Water, got it,” she said brightly to help him cover.  

Clarke found some warm water near the filtration system and Harper loaned her a comb, and Bellamy was waiting for her when she lugged the bucket out back.  “So how do we do this?” she asked.

Bellamy pointed to the ground.  “Sit there and lean back.  I’ll run the water over your head.  Oh, shit— I should have had you grab a towel,” he said, but Clarke waved him off.

“It’s warm out.  It’s fine,”  she said, and took a seat as directed.

The water was lukewarm as he slowly poured it over her head, his fingers massaging her scalp to work the water through.  Clarke closed her eyes, marveling at how gentle his touch was.  She remembered when she’d last been touched like this, and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes before she could blink them back.  Wordlessly she handed him the comb and waited until the lump in her throat had subsided to talk.

“Could you— could you tell me about Gina?” she said, hesitant.  It was easier not to look at him, she found.  Ever since Raven had radioed to tell him Gina was gone Clarke had wondered who she was and what she meant to him, but they hadn’t had time for these sorts of discussions.

Bellamy was quiet for so long she wondered if she should apologize.  He methodically worked the comb through her hair and cleared his throat.  “She worked in redistribution on the Ark,” he said finally.  “Curly hair.  She...she smiled a lot.”

Clarke closed her eyes and thought.  “Is she tall?” she asked, a hazy memory of a woman a few years older than her surfacing.

Bellamy gave a wry chuckle.  “Taller than you, yeah,” he said, picking at a snarl.  “How short did you want this, by the way?”

Clarke ran her fingers through her hair until they hit a knot just past her shoulder.  “Here is fine,” she said and indicated a spot above the tangle.  “That way you don’t have to bother with the rest of the knots.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” she said.  “So Gina.  She was nice?”

She could practically hear him smile.  “Yeah.  She was nice.  Friendly.  Friendlier than...well, friendlier than me.”

“That’s not hard,” Clarke teased gently.

He snorted.  “No, it isn’t.  But she was.  She was good.  Funny.  Kind.  You would have liked her,” he said, and his voice got hoarse with his last words.

“I’m sure I would have.”

The scissors started to snip, locks of her hair floating to the ground.  “What was she like?” he said finally.  “I never— I only knew her as the Commander.”

The tears returned and Clarke blinked them back as best she could.  “She was...soft,” she said finally.  “Underneath the Commander, she was...she was just a girl.”  The tears were falling freely now, and his hand came to rest on her shoulder.  Clarke put her hand over his in silent acknowledgment.  “I loved her,” she choked out, and his hand turned over to squeeze hers.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry too,” she said, and there they sat, Clarke with her back to him, until he began cutting again.  They didn’t speak until he was done, and when Clarke stood he wrapped her in a hug.  She rested her ear against his chest and breathed in and out, calming herself.

The world was still ending, but she wasn’t alone.


	16. California Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon asked for a bellarke OC au, because this anon knows my heart of hearts. (I also feel like there is a longer OC au floating around out there, but I am le terrible at keeping track of what I read so idk who wrote it).
> 
> Oh, and we’re going with season one Thelonius Jaha characterization here, not, you know, Disappointment On Many Fronts season three Jaha.

Bellamy inhaled the salt air, wondering if this was all just a dream.  Three days ago he’d been in juvie, his family in shambles, and today he was living in the poolhouse of a mansion with beachfront access.  Octavia was still in lockup but Jaha had sworn he would do his best to get her probation, and then she would get to move in with them too.   **  
**

The contrast between his old life and what was apparently his new one couldn’t be more stark.  His shitty little town in the Inland Empire was mostly strip malls, nail salons, and meth houses.  This— this was paradise, by comparison.  If all he had to do to get this for Octavia was put up with Jaha’s constant moralizing and his son’s nervous babble about his crush, he could handle it.

A flutter of black caught his eye and Bellamy turned to find the next door neighbor standing on the beach, facing the ocean just like him.  The sun was setting, a flare of light coming from her probably-expensive earrings.   _Clarke_ , he surmised.  Last night he’d been treated to Wells’ entire life story, including how his crush on the blonde next door had recently been replaced by a crush on the blonde-next-door’s genius friend.   _Raven is only like, the most perfect girl in the universe,_ Wells had raved, _she’s smart and she’s so pretty it hurts_ but he’d neglected to mention that Clarke also happened to fall in the _so pretty it hurts_ category.  Her blonde hair was loose, the ocean breeze blowing it back from her shoulders.

She turned, and Bellamy was momentarily surprised to see that she had a hoop piercing the corner of her lower lip, another stud in her nose, and a tattoo across her left shoulder.  She wouldn’t have been out of place in a bar back home, which meant she looked nothing like the princess he was expecting.

She turned and surveyed him with a predatory smirk.  “You must be the stray Jaha brought home,” she observed, sucking in on the cigarette between her fingers.

“And you must be Arkadia’s reigning princess,” he replied, returning her gaze steadily.  If she wanted to look, she was welcome to— but he wasn’t going to let her off easily.  

“That’s who I used to be,” she replied.  A cloud of smoke leaked from between her lips.  He was mesmerized by them, lush and full and pink.

He stepped closer, the sand uneven under his feet.  “Then who are you now?” he asked, his eyes dark.  He plucked the cigarette from her hand and took a drag.  Her eyes flickered towards his lips, and her fingers brushed against his when she took it back.

Clarke didn’t back down. “Trouble you don’t need.”   She crushed the cigarette under her toe and turned towards the stairs to her own palatial house.  “See you around.”

Now it was his turn to smirk.  “Not if I see you first, princess.”

 


	17. Don't Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anonymous request for Bellamy and Clarke fighting about him leaving with the delinquents overhearing them fight.

Clarke walked into Bellamy’s compartment without knocking.  They’d dispensed with pretenses after they returned from Polis because they maybe had six months— scratch that, five months— to save the human race.  Quite frankly, they didn’t have time for knocking.  She’d passed Jasper and Monty on her way through the halls, nodding towards them before barging into Bellamy’s place.  “Hey, when the mission leaves—” she drew up short and stared.  “What are you doing?” What she was seeing didn’t make sense.  He had a pack out on his cot, currently containing several boxes of rations and a thick winter coat.  Bellamy was packing.  

Bellamy was _leaving._ **  
**

“Packing,” he said with his back to her.  He was rooting through the small locker that served as a closet.  “Raven needs backup.”

“I thought— we talked about this.  Miller and Monty are going as backup.”

“Plans changed,” he shrugged.  “I don’t want to split up Miller and Bryan, not after everything they’ve been through.  And Monty alone isn’t enough— they’ll need at least one more pair of hands to roll back the meltdown.”

Panic clawed inside her chest, warring with anger and pure, unadulterated fear.  “No.”

He turned, arching an eyebrow.  “No?”

She shook her head, frantic.  “No.  We agreed.  Miller and Monty.  Or Miller and Bryan, if you don’t want to split them up.”

“We need Monty— the rest of us don’t know dick about nuclear power plants,” Bellamy replied, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Well, you’re not going and that’s final,” she snapped.

Just then Raven appeared at the door, with Monty and Jasper hot on her heels.  She stopped, looked between the two of them— Clarke with her fists clenched at her sides, Bellamy with his jaw tight— and shooed the boys away, hastily closing the door behind her.

“I don’t remember electing you chancellor,” Bellamy replied, low and dangerous.

“We need you here.”

“To do what, sit around?  The Exodus won’t start for another two months, we’re not at war with anyone, and I’m shit at farming.  So what do you need me for?  The reactor is only two weeks away.  I’ll be back with plenty of time to help organize the Exodus.  I’m going.”

“You can’t,” Clarke blurted.  Her desperation rose like a wave, cresting and drowning everything else.  Tears burned in her eyes and Bellamy’s face shifted from annoyance to concern.

“Hey hey hey,” he said gently.  “What’s going on with you?  I’m coming back.”

She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.  “You might not,” she said, and the words cost her more than he could know.  “You might not, and I can’t— I can’t do this without you.”

Bellamy walked towards her and carefully took her face in his hands.  They’d barely touched since they left Polis, Bellamy giving her a wide berth and Clarke needing space, but now his hands were on her skin, warm and comforting.  The tears kept falling and he brushed them away with his thumbs as she looked down, unable to meet his gaze.  “It’ll be okay,” he soothed.

“Don’t go,” Clarke choked out, her hands curling around his forearms.  She tried to stop crying, but the thought of him leaving was too painful.  “I need you, and if you leave— if something happens and I’m not there, I can’t— Bellamy, please,” she begged. She was incoherent but desperate, still unsure of how she felt but certain that if he left she’d fall to pieces.  “I need you here.”

Bellamy leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. “Okay,” he said.

“You’ll stay?”

“I’ll stay.”

Clarke inhaled deeply, willing the tears to stop.  “I think there’s some people waiting outside for us,” she said shakily, because they could hear Jasper and Raven and Monty hissing at each other to be quiet just on the other side of his door.

Bellamy smiled but didn’t move away.  “You going to be okay?”

“I will,” she said and gave him a watery smile.  “I will be.”


	18. Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon requested a modern AU where Clarke had a fight with the Blake siblings but they show up to her father's funeral anyway.
> 
> TW for grief.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the grey haired man said. **  
**

Clarke nodded robotically, letting him take her hands in his.  He seemed genuine, but she had no earthly idea who he was or how he knew her father— or if he even did, since at least half of the mourners she’d met so far were politicians and lobbyists trying to curry favor with her mother— so she thanked him as best she could and turned to the next person in line.  It was like an endless conveyer belt of people, each one indistinguishable from the next.  Visitation had been going on for over an hour already, and if the line that stretched to outside the funeral home was any indication, Clarke and her mother would be at this for several hours yet.

She felt like she should be crying or screaming or really doing anything except numbly accepting condolences, but ever since she’d gotten the phone call about the accident she’d been operating in a fog.  The strangest things would make her tear up, like the sight of her father’s toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, or the junk mail addressed to him piled on the otherwise gleaming countertops of her parents’ expansive kitchen, but she had yet fall apart, the tears burning in her eyes but refusing to fall.  Mostly she just went through the motions, not fully comprehending what this meant.  It felt like a dream, unreal and hazy, and sometimes she wondered when she would wake up and things would go back to normal.

Clarke vaguely listened to the elderly woman who was telling her a story about teaching Jake when he was younger, her eyes wandering to the next person in line.  She was clearly hallucinating, because there was no way Octavia Blake was here.  Clarke hadn’t seen the younger Blake in two years, not since the day she fought with Bellamy and ruined everything.  Clarke wasn’t surprised when Octavia sided with her brother and joined him in cutting Clarke out completely— the Blakes were generally a package deal— but Clarke had missed her friend terribly nonetheless.

But when the old woman took her leave, Octavia pulled her into a hug so tight it had to be real.  “God, I’m so sorry,” Octavia whispered in her ear.  “I’m so, so sorry.”  Clarke gave her a tremulous smile when they parted.  She was getting good at this, at letting people’s condolences wash over her without leaving a mark, but Octavia tested her resolve.  She looked so sincere that a lump emerged in Clarke’s throat and she found she couldn’t talk.  She just nodded at Octavia, hoping her old friend would understand how much it meant to her that she was here.  It was almost as good as having Bellamy back, but Clarke knew better than to hope for that.

But the moment Octavia turned to Abby, there he was— solid, warm, and smelling like the cologne he always wore, his arms around her before she fully registered that he was there.

And that was when the dam broke.  A sob wrenched from her chest and then she couldn’t stop, the grief she’d felt building for the past three days bursting out of her all at once.  She curled her fingers into the back of Bellamy’s suit and felt him rest his cheek on top of her head.  Once she started she couldn’t stop, her sobs getting louder but doing nothing to ease the constant, piercing pain in her heart.  “I’m sorry,” she heard him whisper into her hair, and he cupped his hand around the base of her skull, cradling her against him.  They were holding up the line, Clarke knew, but she couldn’t stop crying and she couldn’t let go of him because if she did, she’d drown.

Bellamy said something quietly to her mother and then they were walking, Bellamy guiding her away from the long line of people.  His arm kept her close to his side and she let him lead, blind to their destination until they arrived in the small room off to the side of the main hall.  It was set up like a living room, with a loveseat and chairs grouped around a coffee table.  It had struck her as odd when she and Abby first arrived, like it was set up to host a small party instead of a place to store their purses while they endured hours upon hours of empty-feeling condolences.

Bellamy sat down on the couch and she curled into him, kicking off the spiky black heels she’d chosen for reasons she couldn’t remember.  The high neck of her black dress was scratching her skin and the waistband of the pantyhose her mother had insisted she wear was digging into her stomach, but Bellamy’s chest was solid and reassuring.

Clarke wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, weeping into his shirt and while he gently stroked her hair.  Octavia materialized with a glass of water at one point, setting it down on the table and leaning over to stroke her cheek.  “God, Clarke, I’m so— I know how awful this is.  I’m sorry,” Octavia said.  Clarke wanted to thank her, but she couldn’t get the words out, her lungs working overtime as she sobbed.  Now that she had given in she wasn’t sure she would ever fully resurface, but the gentle look on Octavia’s face seemed understanding.  

Octavia had left and Clarke’s sobs had slowed to a steady stream of tears by the time Bellamy spoke again.  “Is Raven here?” he asked.

Clarke shook her head and let him draw her more fully into his lap.  “She was.  She and Wells have been around since— since it happened,” she managed.  She still couldn’t quite say the words, couldn’t get _my father is dead_ to come out of her lips, because then it would be real and not a nightmare she had a chance of waking from.  “They went home to put Marie to bed.  They’ll be back soon.”  Bellamy pressed his lips to her temple, his arms tightening around her.  “I’m sorry you know,” she choked out.  “For what happened.”

She couldn’t even really remember how their fight started that August day two years ago, she just knew it had encompassed everything from quitting med school to Bellamy’s need to try and control her life, and it had ended with her shouting that she never wanted to see him again.  She’d regretted those words almost immediately, but he was stubborn and so was she, so that was where she thought it ended.  She didn’t deserve to have him here, absorbing her grief and anchoring her to the earth.

“I’m sorry too,” he said, his breath stirring the fine wisps of hair around her forehead.

“After what I said— I wouldn’t blame you for never speaking to me again,” she replied.  She tucked her head into the crook of his neck, breathing him in and accepting the kleenex he handed her.  “You didn’t have to come.

Bellamy shrugged as best he could underneath her.  “It’s what you do when you love someone,” he said softly, and there it was, the truth that had been staring her in the face for years, the truth that terrified her beyond imagining.  Bellamy loved her and she would never, ever deserve it, so she’d done her best to drive him away.  And she thought she’d succeeded, a pyrrhic victory that left her alone and broken.  

“I love you too,” she admitted, because there was no point in denying it any more.  If he’d said this to her in a bar, or under a streetlight as he walked her home, or on the couch in her old apartment where they used to spend hours watching movies and laughing, she would have kissed him, shaking with nerves and anticipation.  But right now there was no lust behind their words, no giddy anticipation of what might come— it was just truth, cold and bare and unadorned.  She loved Bellamy and he loved her, and things might be broken but they were not beyond repair.  

This knowledge did nothing to ease the pain in her chest, and the tears kept coming and coming, wave after wave of sadness cresting inside of her, but Bellamy’s arms were around her and he wasn’t letting go.

For now, that was enough.


	19. California Dreams (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II to California dreams (chapter 16).

“This is a terrible plan,” Bellamy muttered. **  
**

“No, it’s a perfect plan.  Worst case scenario, you end up kissing Murphy,” Clarke whispered back.

“You realize that’s not a good thing, right?  We’ve punched each other like, six times in the past two weeks.”

“Yeah, but kissing is better than punching,” she replied.  “We’re doing this.  It’s the only way Wells will be brave enough to make a move.”  She held up the empty vodka bottle.  “Time for Spin the Bottle!” she yelled, and over a dozen rich, mostly drunk teenagers cheered in response.

Technically, attending this party was a violation of his probation, but Bellamy had found that when you lived in the lap of luxury, things like c _onsequences for your actions_ didn’t really exist.  As long as he himself stayed sober he probably didn’t have anything to worry about— which was a new concept for him.  He settled into the circle next to Wells and across from Clarke, who shot him a pointed look before she gave the bottle in the center a skillful twist.  It slowed to a stop with the mouth pointed towards Wells.  “Come on, this won’t be so bad,” Clarke teased as she crawled towards him.  Bellamy wanted to be a gentleman and divert his gaze, but instead he just watched the way her v-neck shirt hung down a little too low on her breasts as she moved.

Her kiss with Wells was hardly more than a peck which drew disappointed boos from the crowd.  Clarke just shrugged and nodded to Wells.  “Your turn,” she said.

Wells’ first spin landed on Harper, and from there on it was a blur of kisses, cat calls, and cheers.  Raven’s spin found Wells, and Bellamy could tell that his almost-brother was practically shaking with nerves when they kissed for the first time.  Miller’s turn found Bellamy crawling to the middle of the circle for a hasty, dry kiss with him, but then on Bellamy’s spin he somehow managed to land on Clarke.  She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, playing with the silver ring there, and when her eyes met his for a split second, she didn’t look like the brash girl he met that night on the beach.  She looked nervous, almost apprehensive, but then the look was gone, replaced by the familiar glint of challenge.  She came to him, her eyes burning into his the whole time, and he couldn’t help himself— when their lips met, his hand came up to cup her jaw delicately.

She pulled away entirely too soon, a flush rolling up her neck as she sat back twisted the bottle.  This time it was Raven, and Clarke gave her best friend a loud, smacking kiss that had everyone laughing, and then Raven’s turn landed on Wells again.

“Double hit!” Clarke yelled, looking at everyone but Bellamy.  “You know the rules.  Guest bedroom is thataway, or there’s the closet if you’re feeling nasty.”

Bellamy must have looked confused because Raven laughed as she pushed herself up.  “Landing on someone twice means Seven Minutes in Heaven,” she explained, holding her hand out to a visibly terrified Wells.

“Have fun,” Bellamy said to him, clapping him on the back.

They disappeared down the hall and the game resumed.  Bellamy hit a dry spell for a while, and he was raising his eyebrow at Wells and Raven when they returned.  Apparently with this crowd, Seven Minutes in Heaven wasn’t really strictly enforced, it was just make-out-until-you-feel-like-returning.

Wells was glowing and Raven had a smile on her face that Bellamy would have described as giddy if he hadn’t known she’d punch him in the face for it.  Abruptly, he realized everyone else had fallen silent and Clarke was standing in front of him looking expectant.  “It’s lucky number two for us,” Clarke said, and Bellamy summoned up some bravado he didn’t exactly feel.

“Lead the way, princess,” he said, and followed Clarke to the closet halfway down the hall.  “Didn’t you say there was a bedroom?” he asked when she shoved him in and shut the door.

“There is,” she said, her hands coming to rest on his chest.  “But this feels more…intimate.”

“How— how drunk are you?” he asked.

Clarke tipped her head, her face just visible in the light leaking underneath the door.  “Not at all,” she said.  “Somebody has to keep an eye on things and make sure nobody falls into the pool and drowns.”  Her hands flexed against him and he fought down a shiver.   “Now, are you going to kiss me, or do I have to do everything myself?”

Bellamy brought his hand up to her jaw again, his fingers slipping behind her ear.  “You weren’t kidding when you said you were trouble, were you?”  Clarke stepped closer, her body now pressed against the length of his.  She shook her head and he heard her swallow.  Slowly, giving her time to bolt if she needed to, he tipped his head down.

He meant for it to be a gentle kiss, soft and searching like the one they shared during the game.  But the moment their lips met, it was as if something ignited in them both.  Within seconds he had her pressed to the wall, the hangers to their left clattering dangerously.  Clarke slipped her hands under his t-shirt, sliding them up his back and then around to skim across his stomach.  Her blunt nails sent sparks flying across his skin, and then he had her in his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist while he dragged his lips down her neck.

Bellamy lost track of time, lost track of everything that wasn’t Clarke, her lips hot and needy against his skin.  He didn’t even notice that the door had opened at first, not until Raven loudly cleared her throat.  “I hate to interrupt, but Monty and Jasper are planning something with fireworks.”

“Oh shit, thanks for telling me,” Clarke said, pulling away and straightening her shirt.  She looked at him over her shoulder and winked.  “I’m going to go handle this, but I’m not even close to being done with you.”

Bellamy had spent time in juvie, had committed his fair share of petty crimes, and had grown up around enough criminals to be able to spot danger well in advance.  He prided himself on being able to handle any situation, no matter how dangerous.

But none of that had prepared him for Clarke Griffin.


	20. Too Old for This Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an anon who wanted some fuzzy bellarke feels.

  
  
“You’re getting too old for this, you know,” Clarke teased.  She straddled Bellamy’s back, the furs on their bed tickling her knees.  She dug her fingertips into the muscles lining his spine and he groaned. **  
**

“Watch it; I’m not that much older than you,” he grumbled.

“In this world, thirty-one makes you ancient,” she retorted.  She started easing the knots in his back as best she could, her fingers dancing over his skin.  “And why did you do that anyway?  Someone else could have climbed that tree just as easily.”  She stopped her ministrations to kiss the top of his head.

“Your daughter is the one that climbed it.”

“My daughter?” Clarke stopped and raised an eyebrow, but Bellamy just huffed out a breath.

“Yes, your daughter.  She’s my daughter when she reads quietly in the corner, she’s yours when she decides she’s a squirrel and wants to live on top of a tree.  A tree that she can climb up, but not down.”  He let out another strangled moan when she pressed her knuckle into the knot just under his shoulder blade.

“I’ll make sure she knows how to get down next time,” Clarke promised.  “No more climbing for you.”

“Good,” he grumped, and she leaned forward to drop a kiss on his head again.

“For the record, she’s your daughter when she refuses to eat her vegetables,” Clarke whispered.

“That’s because vegetables are gross.  She’s not wrong,” he said, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Clarke warned.

“I won’t.  I’m not an idiot.”

“Well, you are.  But you’re my idiot.” 


	21. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the icemechanicfanfiction June challenge. Prompt: beach.

The rain kept misting down, the clouds dipping low to meet the ocean.  Raven blinked the water from her eyes and let the roar of the waves wash over her while they waited.  Floukru was supposed to rendezvous with them at the crack of dawn, but a problem with the boats had left half their people stranded.  Raven ached to be useful, but the boats were out on the oil rig and she was here on the shore, so instead she just watched the waves.

Jasper had sat with her for the first few hours, but eventually he’d gone to help Monty with something and left her alone with her thoughts.  Raven had never really considered the vastness of the ocean before— it was an abstract thought, a fact catalogued alongside dozens of others about earth that she never thought she’d ever need, like “wet wood doesn’t catch fire easily,” and “exposure to cold can lead to frostbite.”  But it just kept going, endless, grey, and cold.

She shivered and someone sat down on the boulder next to her.  “Clarke tells me you’re a mechanic,” the Azgeda king said.

“So?” she sneered.  His people were the ones that killed Gina and Raven had fought Clarke hard on including them on the exodus.  But the Griffin women overruled her, and here he was, sitting next to her like he didn’t have her friend’s blood on his hands.

“So I was hoping once we reach Safe Haven you’d be willing to teach my people some things.  If we’re all going to be together—”

“Save it,” Raven snapped.  “I don’t have to do anything for your people.  Yours certainly have done plenty for mine.”

He fell silent for a long moment.  “You lost someone in Mount Weather.”

“Excellent observation.”

“My lady, I’m—”

“I don’t give a shit,” she interrupted.  “I don’t want your apologies, and I don’t want your pity.  In fact, I’d let all of you burn to death if it were up to me.  So whatever you want, don’t bother.  Leave me alone.”

He stood and held his hands up in surrender.  “I’m sorry,” he said, not quietly but sincerely.  “I’m sorry for your loss, and for intruding on your solitude.  I won’t make the same mistake again.”

He turned on his heel and left.  Raven shifted to get more comfortable on the slick granite, her stomach churning.  She’d wanted to vent her spleen towards the Ice Nation for weeks, but now that she had she didn’t feel any better.  Gina was still gone, and Azgeda was still coming with them on the exodus.

But she refused to feel guilty for telling him off, so she tugged her jacket more tightly around her shoulders and glared out at the sea.  

She hated him, but somehow she knew she hadn’t seen the last of Azgeda’s handsome king.


	22. Swimming Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marycontrary82 asked for some fluff.

Clarke stood at the edge of the lake and watched tiny waves ripple out from where a fish had surfaced.  On the Ark, she hadn’t considered just how many different types of water there would be on the Ground.  On the Ark, water was something that came in a thin stream from a faucet, endlessly recycled.  But here water was so much more.  Oceans were enormous, making her feel small and insignificant, the crash of waves soothing in their constant roar.  Rivers took her breath away with their swiftness, the rapids dangerous but alluring.  Streams were softer, an offer of fresh water and a chance to wash the grime from your skin.  She’d seen a few ponds since they landed too, stagnant pools of green algae and deformed fish.

But this— this was different somehow.  It was bigger than the one behind Arkadia but smaller than the one she’d spent four days skirting during her travels, and this one didn’t have a shore rimmed in swamps.  It had rocky cliffs to the north with a small waterfall gurgling down the boulders and a small sandy beach to the south, sloping gradually out into the water.

She stood on the beach and dug her toes into the sun baked sand.  This lake made her feel safe.  At peace.  They were lucky that the valley Raven had found had everything they needed— water, good land, and towering mountains that sheltered them from the worst of the fallout.  It was a good place to start over, a good place to build a new world without the mistakes of the old one.

“Thinking about going for a swim?”  Bellamy asked, emerging from the tall grass to her right.  A bead of sweat worked it’s way from his temple down to his jaw, glistening in the hot sun.

Clarke smiled faintly.  “Just taking a break.”

The sand shifted under his weight.  “Well, I’m going to swim,” he said and dropped the cloth he was carrying as a towel.  Clarke recognized Luna’s handiwork, the blues and greens she favored standing out in bright relief against the pale sand.  “Want to join me?”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “You know how to swim?”  They’d all gotten a basic lesson from Pike in fifth year Earth Skills, but all that had done was make them feel supremely stupid attempting to dog paddle in thin air.  The few times she’d gone into the water on the Ground she’d been mostly terrified, slamming into the water from the Mount Weather Dam or paddling frantically for her life after failing to take down a boar.

“Miller had a thing for rewatching Olympic swimming races up on the Ark. He gave us lessons when—” Bellamy broke off, and Clarke wondered if those three months would ever not hang between them.

“When I was gone,” she finished.  “I’ll let you get to it.”  She turned to go, but his hand on her arm stopped her.

“Hey, fresh start, remember?” he said with a crooked smile that hid so much pain.  But he was trying, so she would too.  “Let me teach you.”

“Okay,” she relented, and averted her eyes when he took off his shirt.  She’d been noticing him more lately, taking in the breadth of his shoulders from across the village or the way he rumpled his hair when Council meetings ran long and he got fidgety.  This was even harder, with his bare chest just inches away from her eyes, but she shrugged out of her shirt too and then stepped out of her pants.  Bellamy’s eyes might have darted to her legs, but he looked out at the lake so quickly she wasn’t sure.

“Come on, the water’s warm,” he said and took her hand.  The water splashed up his bare legs and darkened the tight charcoal boxer briefs he was wearing as he towed her into the lake.

Clarke followed a little more hesitantly, fighting memories of fear that surfaced when the water hit her chest.  Bellamy stopped where the water was just up to her shoulders and ducked his head back to wet it.  Droplets dripped from the ends, already springing back into those haphazard curls she knew so well.  

“Okay, we’ll start with floating,” Bellamy said.  “Lean back.  I’ll support you at first, and then—”

“--then my body’s natural buoyancy will take over.  I took Earth Skills too, you know,” she said with a smile.

“All right then, smartass.  You ready?”

Clarke grinned and leaned back, Bellamy’s hand warm against her back, and started to lift her feet up from the soft, muddy bottom.  Almost immediately panic surged through her veins.  She remembered being torn through the water after running from Mount Weather, fighting the current and then slamming her head into some rocks.  The last thing she remembered was water filling her lungs and then an awful blackness, sure she was about to die.  Clarke scrambled back to her feet and shook her head.  “I’m sorry, I can’t— I— I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said soothingly.  He touched her cheek, just briefly.  “But I’ve got you, okay?  I won’t let you go under.”  Clarke nodded, and this time she managed to bring her legs up, her back supported by his hand.  “Now start moving your hands in figure eights,” he instructed.  “No, not like you’re waving— cup them.  There you go.  I’m going to let go now, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed, and then the soft pressure of his hand was gone and she was weightless.  

Bellamy smiled down at her.  Above him was sky, clear and blue and endless.  The water caressed her skin, cool and gentle, and she smiled back.

Things weren’t perfect and maybe they never would be, but they had a chance to try and make a better world.  

And together, they could.

  
  



	23. Seven Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon requested a bellarke drabble in the same universe as my ice mechanic soulmates drabble, which is chapter 13 (Snowflakes and Gears) in this collection. It's not necessary to read that one to understand this universe, however.

Seven stars.  

Seven stars in a half moon shape on the inside of her left wrist had been on Clarke’s skin since the day she was born.  That was unusual for a soulmark— most got theirs around puberty, once your personality started to settle.  But Clarke had been born with hers, and no one was quite sure what that meant.

Even the pattern they made was a mystery.  Wells thought they looked like a horseshoe (his was easy; an apple) but Clarke thought they looked more like a crown.  It was Monty (a sword) who suggested they might be a constellation, but that just made it more confusing.  Different cultures saw different things in the stars, and Clarke spent hours online sorting through possible matches.

Only one came close— the Corona Borealis, a crown given to Ariadne after she risked everything to help Theseus end the slaughter in the labyrinth, only to be abandoned when he went off to seek more adventures.  When Clarke met Lexa, everything seemed to fit.  Who was Lexa, after all, if not a woman made to rule?  But in the end, that wasn’t Ariadne’s story.  She wasn’t a queen; she was a rebel, defying her father for the sake of Athen’s children.

After Lexa, Clarke moved to the city.  In the city, you see, you couldn’t see the stars.  She met Octavia in a kickboxing class and slowly found herself again.  The only flaw in her new life was Octavia’s brother, who seemed determined to hate her no matter what she said.  But somehow, clashing with each other over every little thing wore down their rough edges until they were smooth, and suddenly one day they were friends.

The one thing Bellamy would never tell her about was his soulmark.  He wore a thick watch that hid it from sight, and whenever the subject of soulmarks came up he would stay quiet, refusing to join in the speculation.  “It got me into mythology,” was all he would say, so she asked Octavia instead. But Octavia refused her too.  “It’s private,” Octavia said, with a tone that made it final.

Clarke was laying on the beach at her step-father’s house on the shore, the sun slowly drying her skin, when Bellamy came out of the ocean to grab his towel.  She looked over, sleepy, and caught a flash of black on his wrist.  Clarke bolted upright and grabbed his arm before he could hide it.  She couldn’t believe her eyes, but there it was, plain as day. 

A winged lion, fierce and bellicose.

A griffin.

She stared at him, incredulous, and Bellamy’s eyes flashed with something akin to fear.  “You knew?” she managed, her mouth dry and her voice hoarse.

Bellamy smiled ruefully.  “I’ve always known.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The version of Ariadne's myth I'm using here can be found here: 
> 
> http://www.tcoe.org/scicon/instructionalguide/constellations.pdf
> 
> (warning: comic sans ahead)


	24. Salt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon requested bellarke and "The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea." - Isak Dinesen

Clarke fist hit the bag and the impact rang through her knuckles.  She hit it again, this time with her right hand, and again, and again, and again.  With each punch, a face flashed before her eyes.  A face of someone she failed to save; someone she hurt.  Someone she loved; someone she lost.  She punched harder, faster, sweat pouring into her eyes.  Her muscles burned and the wrap around her hands tore but she couldn’t stop.

She didn’t even notice Bellamy enter until he was standing on the other side of the bag.  He reached out and stopped its sway but Clarke kept going, pummeling the bag with all of her strength.  He stepped back but didn't leave, silently watching.  

She wasn’t sleeping much these days. She couldn’t.  Clarke’s only choice was to keep moving, because if she stopped she’d shatter.  She didn’t want Bellamy to tell her to take a break, or go to sleep, or show any sort of concern for her because if he did, she would start crying and never stop.

Her punches got wilder but still he stayed, watching her pound into it until exhaustion won out.  Clarke finally stopped and unwound the wrap from her left hand, sucking on a knuckle that had split open.  It had been bleeding for some time, judging by the stain on the bandage, but she couldn’t remember it happening.

“Feel like sparring?” he asked once she’d unwrapped her other hand.

Clarke looked at him carefully, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the way he glanced away when she made eye contact.  Maybe she wasn’t the only one not sleeping.  She wondered where he spent his nights, and what had changed to bring him here.  She wondered how much else there was about him that she didn’t know.  The gulf between them seemed massive and insignificant all at once.

So she took her place on the opposite side of the mat and assumed a fighting stance.  She was breathing heavily and a drop of sweat ran down her spine, cold and hot all at once.  Bellamy sank into his knees, his hands coming up, and on her nod he darted forward, quick as a snake.  She blocked his first strike with her forearm and swept her leg at his knees, but he danced back just in time.  She tried again, but he blocked her as easily as she had.

Sparring with Bellamy was both easier and harder than she thought it would be.  He seemed to know her movements before she made them, but then again she seemed to know what he was going to do before he did too.  She managed to knock him off his feet twice and pinned him the first time, but he broke out of her hold the second time and flipped her on her back.  She tapped out and he helped her up, moving to the other side of the mat again.  They kept circling each other, taking turns on the offensive but rarely landing a hit, until Bellamy stepped back and stood up straight.  “I think it’s a draw,” he said, but Clarke shook her head.

“Not yet,” she said, hoping she succeeded in keeping the plea out of her voice.

“We can’t do this all night.”

She walked away from him wordlessly and started wrapping her hands again.  If he needed to sleep, she wouldn’t stop him.  She’d been doing this on her own for weeks.  She didn’t need him here, no matter how much better she felt facing him instead of her memories.

“Clarke,” he said again.  “Come on.”

“I’m fine here,” she told him and walked back to the heavy bag.  “You can go.”  Her first punch was weaker than she’d like, so she squared her shoulders and tried again, pointedly ignoring Bellamy.

He stood there, silent, and against her will tears started to prick at her eyes.  “Go,” she repeated between punches.  She was dangerously close to losing control.  “Please, just go.”

“No.”  He said it quietly but firmly, and she stopped her assault on the bag.

“Bellamy, please.  I can’t.  Just— just leave.”

“No.”  His voice sounded thick, almost hoarse.

She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and turned away from him.  “I can’t stop, okay?  If I stop— if I stop, I—” she broke off, words failing her.

“I know,” he rasped, and when she turned his arms were waiting.  She crumpled against him and the sobs started in earnest.  He held her tightly and she felt his own tears dripping onto her hair, because they were both broken.  Some of their cracks were in the same places and some weren’t, but when you’re broken this badly the places didn’t matter.  Clarke wrapped her arms around his back, sticky with sweat, and they cried.  

When her sobs slowed, she looked up.  Tears stained his cheeks so she dried them with her thumbs, a tiny smile quirking at the corners of her mouth.  Bellamy gave her a watery smile and took her hand in his.  

That night, with her arms around Bellamy’s waist and his heart beating underneath her hand, Clarke slept.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last scene was partially inspired by this lovely fanart: 
> 
> http://lee-face.tumblr.com/post/146910556767/please-let-them-take-a-nap-more-from


	25. An Interlude (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon requested bellarke on opposing sides of WWI during the Christmas Truce. I went a little off prompt, but the WWI setting remains intact.

_ France, 1916 _

Clarke had long ago learned to ignore the sounds of shells.  They were a constant on the front, even miles back from the trenches.  The awful whistling sound they made before they blew men into pieces was burned into her mind, a constant reminder of the destruction all around them.  She hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a time in days and her head seemed packed with wool, fuzzy and slow.  

She moved between the beds of wounded and dying men and wondered if there was anything else in this world, or if all that was left was this; a few miles of muddy ground in northern France and and an endless stream of bodies and blood.  Ever since the offensive was launched in the bright sunlight of a French summer Clarke had been drowning in death, fighting through waves of the wounded until it seemed pointless.  It was now a cold, wet fall,and nothing had changed.  She used to keep track, to try and remember all the lives she failed to save, but now she just washed the blood off her hands and moved on to the next bed, attempting to stop the tidal wave of death with nothing more than bandages.

“Clarke, you have some French, right?” Harper asked.  She had the same haggard look as Clarke— all the nurses on the front line did.  She wondered if their whole generation had sinned so grievously that this was their punishment, war and death and death and war.

She blinked Harper back into focus.  “A little.  Why?”

“The ambulance corps picked up a French soldier by mistake.  I can talk about the weather, but—”

“I’ve got it,” Clarke replied.  “Where is he?”

“Back corner.  The doctors have already seen to him.”

Clarke moved towards the corner Harper had indicated, men groaning in a horrible chorus around her.  “ _ Aidez _ ,” a hoarse voice whispered.  “ _ Aidez moi.” _

Clarke stopped and crouched down.  “ _ Je m’appelle Clarke _ ,” she said, scanning his body.  He had bandages all up and down his right side— probably shrapnel.  He was no more hurt than most and better off than many, assuming he could avoid infection.  “ _ Et vouz _ ?”

“Bellamy,” he croaked, and Clarke found a basin and a dipper of water.  She helped him sit and he slurped at it noisily.  His skin was ashy underneath his freckles and mud still spattered his face, his eyes glassy.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked in her stilted, formal French.  She spoke more French than most of the hospital staff, but it was the French taught to a proper young woman who would take a tour of the Continent, not the callous, rough French of the trenches.  It marked her as different, but it was the best she could do.

His hand found hers on top of the roughspun sheet.  “My sister.  If I die— please, tell her not to worry,” he rasped.  He had a Parisian accent, his words almost too quick for her to follow.

This was common— most dying men had someone they wanted a nurse to write to; a sweetheart or a mother or a young son, someone to mourn them when they were gone. Clarke clucked her tongue and smiled because for once, she didn't feel like she had to honor his request.  Not yet, anyway.  “I will, but you're not dying today.  Get some rest and I’ll check on you in the morning,” she said, and he nodded, trusting her.

Clarke returned the next morning, and the morning after.  Bellamy could sit up by the third day, writing letters to his sister with the pen clutched awkwardly in his left hand.  There was a lull in the fighting and Clarke found herself spending more time with Bellamy than anyone else. Bellamy only spoke halting English, his voice was rough and breaking oddly around syllables, but in French— in French, he was almost a poet.  Clarke found herself lingering at Bellamy’s beside during her rounds, staying long after she had changed his bandages.  She found excuses to dawdle whenever she could, often helping him walk with a slow, shambling gait through what once was a posh manor house and now was just another casualty of war, pockmarked from shelling and stuffed to the gills with the wounded.  On those walks he would talk to her about his sister, or his studies, or anything but the hell they were living in.  Clarke in turn would tell him about her father, lost in the early days of the war, and her mother, a nurse back in England.  It was a rare reprieve in a world that had forgotten how to be gentle, a bright spot in a dull grey landscape.

It was during one of those walks that a French officer entered and Bellamy stood up as straight as he could, a crutch tucked under his arm.  They spoke rapidly— far too quickly for Clarke to follow— and Bellamy saluted the man as he left.

“There’s a spot for me in Rouen,” Bellamy explained.  He always took care to speak a little more slowly for her, and his smile turned wistful.  “A convalescent home.  I leave in a convoy tonight.”

It was what she expected, but when the French trucks rolled up in front of the hospital her heart ached all the same.  Clarke thought she’d forgotten how to cry, but now she found herself blinking back tears as she pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.  “I hope we meet again,” she whispered in Bellamy’s ear, and he bid her _adieu_  with a sad smile.

Resolute, Clarke turned away and walked back into the hospital, back into the groans and cries of boys who had been sent to die for reasons no one could seem to recall.

She hoped against hope Bellamy wouldn’t be one of them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Never fear, part II has already been written and shall go up tomorrow.)


	26. An Interlude (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapter 25.

_ England, 1919 _

 

Clarke stopped to let a car rumble past before crossing to the village green.  She still wasn’t used to traffic on the cobblestone streets of Arkadia, no matter how many times Wells cheerfully told her to embrace the future.  It felt like everything had changed since the war, like she’d lost something she didn’t know she had.

She waved to Mrs. Green and shifted her hatbox to her right hand.  It was a long walk back to the manor, now feeling far too large for just her mother and herself.  They had considered turning it into a convalescent home, but with the war done and the influenza a distant memory there didn’t seem to be any need for it.  Clarke didn’t like this feeling— she liked feeling useful.  And as hellish as the war had been, it gave her a purpose she sorely lacked.

Clarke was just about to cross to the winding lane that lead back home when she heard it.

“Clarke,” a voice called, the  _ a  _ and  _ r _ soft on his tongue, the  _ k _ like an afterthought.  

Her heart began to pound.  She turned, not wanting to believe, but there he was: whole and healthy and smiling, his skin warm and golden, his eyes just as dark and intelligent as she remembered.  Her hatbox spilled from her numb fingers into the bright green grass and she felt rooted on the spot.  “Bellamy?  How did you— how?” she asked, stumbling over the French she hadn’t used in nearly a year.

“You told me that you lived in Arkadia,” he said, surprising her by replying in English.  He wasn’t so harsh in it anymore, or maybe that was just the smile on his face.  “But you failed to mention that you owned it as well.  I asked at the train station if anyone knew where I could find you and they all just laughed.”

She reached up to touch his cheek with a trembling hand.  She’d known him less than a week— it wasn’t possible to feel this way about him.  That’s what she’d told herself for years until she almost believed it, but now he was here and she could barely breathe for happiness.  There were hundreds of things she wanted to tell him, thousands of things she wanted to ask, but instead she just kissed him, right there on the village green. It would probably cause a minor scandal— it definitely would, actually— but Clarke didn’t care.

And given the way he kissed her back, Bellamy didn’t either.

 


	27. Stitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @hiworldimmolly asked for an injured Clarke talking Bellamy through treating her.

It wasn’t that deep.  Clarke kept telling herself that as Bellamy carried her back to their campsite, her hand pressed against her side, her shirt growing wetter by the minute.   It was only stray arrow, aimed haphazardly in her direction while they stalked the woods for a boar.  Clarke wasn’t sure whose territory they’d encroached on, or if they were even in marked territory anymore.  The maps to the reactors were incomplete, drawn in the years before the bombs changed the landscape, and with the collapse of the coalition the old clan boundaries meant little.

It was just a scouting mission, the two of them collecting information on the reactor meltdowns for Raven’s calculations, and they’d been traveling for four days when it happened.  One minute she was crouched near an oak tree, knife at the ready, and the next there was a faint whistling sound and then a lance of pain across her left side.  Clarke cried out and Bellamy was at her side in a second, rifle at the ready.  They couldn’t see their attackers and no other arrows came, so once the woods had returned to their natural cacophony Clarke pushed herself up.  She stumbled and Bellamy jumped up to steady her.  “You okay?” he asked, his hands around her shoulders.

“I’m fine,” she said, and took a step.  Pain speared through her, sizzling from the edge of her ribcage, around to her back, radiating out in waves that made breathing hard.

“No, you’re not,” Bellamy snapped, but his face was white with fear.  He went to pick her up but she shook her head, determined to walk back under her own power.   _ It’s not that bad,  _ she chanted to herself.   _ You’re fine.   _ She took one step, then another, and then another.   _ See?  You’re fine.  It’s barely a scratch. _

Bellamy was never more than an arm’s length away, and when she staggered and almost fell he swept in and picked her up, his arm under her knees.  Clarke wrapped her good arm around his neck and kept the other hand pressed against the wound as he ran back towards the cave that held the rest of their supplies.  

He laid her down and scrambled for the medkit she’d packed at the bottom of her bag, and Clarke struggled to get her shirt off.  Bellamy dropped the kit at her feet and came over to help, easing it the rest of the way off her shoulders.  Clarke hissed at the sight of the wound, an ugly three inch slash that was just deep enough to be concerning.  She took quick stock of her options— she could cauterize it, which would be incredibly painful but would stop the bleeding immediately, or she could suture it, which would hurt a little less but leave her more vulnerable to infection.

Bellamy poured a little of Monty’s moonshine onto a cloth from her kit and dabbed at the skin around the laceration, clearing away the blood as best he could.  But it kept coming, slow and steady.  “What should I…?” Bellamy asked, and she wondered if she looked as frightened as he did.

“Stitches,” she decided.  They had to move quickly to get to the reactor, but she would be able to change the bandages regularly, and if they rationed the moonshine she would be able to keep it clear of infection.

“Stitches,” he repeated. 

“You know how to sew,” she said as soothingly as she could manage.  “I saw you patching up Octavia’s sweater the other day.  It’s the same thing.”  Bellamy’s eyebrows shot up and she managed a weak chuckle.  “Same process, I mean.  It doesn’t have to be pretty, just— just enough to keep it closed.”

“Okay, I can do this,” he said, seemingly to reassure himself.  He threaded the needle and poured a little moonshine over it.  He handed her the bottle and Clarke took a pull to steady her nerves, and then one more just in case.  “Are you— are you ready?” he asked.

Clarke nodded.  He looked terrified as he placed one hand gingerly on her side, pinching the sides of the wound a little closer together.  Clarke reached out and touched his cheek. “I believe in you,” she said, and he looked her straight in the eye.  “Go,” she urged, and looked away just as the needle pierced her skin.

It was agony.  Each stitch burned, and Clarke bit back her screams even as tears dripped down her cheeks.  “I’m sorry,” Bellamy whispered with each tug of thread.  “God, I’m so sorry.”  Clarke whimpered and he looked up, her pain etched on his face.  “Almost there,” he promised, and two more stitches later he tied it off in a knot and snapped the thread with his teeth.

Clarke talked him through wrapping a clean bandage around her midsection and Bellamy gave her his shirt to wear while he took hers to rinse in a nearby stream.  He screened the cave with branches and Clarke curled her hand around her knife just in case, but by the time he came back she’d fallen asleep.

She woke up to a fire crackling in front of her and Bellamy’s hand gently stroking her hair.  He was looking towards the cave entrance, and Clarke saw her shirt draped near the fire to dry.  He’d even stitched the tear made by the arrow; tiny, neat stitches that made her smile faintly.  Her side still hurt with every breath she took, but she would make it.

Because she had him.

  
  



	28. Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mylittledarlin requested Bellamy and Clarke as team captains while the delinquents play soccer.
> 
> Warning: pure fluff ahead.

Clarke was sharpening her knife when the ball landed at her feet with a thump, a lopsided mess of scrap leather and uneven stitches that wobbled when it rolled over.  She looked around for the source and found Harper standing ten feet away, smiling.

She was  _ smiling. _

“Come on,” Harper called.  “Bellamy figured out how to make us a soccer ball.”

Clarke slipped her knife into its sheath as she stood.  She took a careful glance around, but she didn’t see anywhere she would be needed.  Her mother was sitting near Kane, her head on his shoulder as the sun slowly sank behind the hills, and Jackson was laughing with a woman from Farm Station.  Dinner was finished and everyone was just— relaxing.  It seemed strange to relax when the world was ending, but for the moment there wasn’t anything they could do so Clarke picked up the ball and booted it back towards Harper.  

Clarke jogged over to the rest of them in the clearing near camp and waited for Bellamy and Miller to return from setting out some rocks as goalposts.  Bellamy moved to Clarke’s side and the rest of the delinquents quickly divided into teams.  Bellamy had Miller, Bryan, and Jasper, while Clarke took Harper, Murphy, and Monty.  Raven declared herself the umpire, which made Clarke snort.

“You mean referee,” she explained.  

Raven rolled her eyes.  “Whatever it’s called, it means I’m in charge, right?”

Clarke conceded the point and Raven walked to the sidelines. Bellamy faced off against her over the ball, the late evening sun backlighting his curls.  “You ready for this?” he said with a challenging grin.

“I think the real question is, are you?”

“On your mark,” Raven yelled.

Clarke stood up and turned.  “That’s not how—”

“--don’t care, Griffin,” Raven continued.  “On your mark, get set…”  Clarke faced Bellamy again and softened her stance, ready to spring.  “Go!” Raven yelled, and Clarke beat him to the ball.  She dribbled it three paces, finding herself actually smiling at a memory of doing this same thing on the Ark with Wells, trying to recreate their favorite games using a ball of rags in a hallway.

But just like that one, this ball did not have the easy spin of games in the Ark archives.  It stopped rolling and Miller came roaring up at her from the side to steal it.  Murphy challenged him for possession and lost, and then Miller made a quick pass to Bellamy.  Bellamy kicked it down the field towards Harper, but she easily picked it up before it got too close to the goal.  

Harper’s kick cleared three quarters the field and everyone stopped to stare at her.  “What?” she yelled with a proud smile.  “Didn’t think I had that in me?”

Octavia had joined Raven shortly after kickoff and took advantage of the pause to take a hesitant step forward. “Got room for one more?” she asked, her eyes darting to Bellamy even as she tried to focus on Clarke.

“Only if you’re on my team,” Bellamy said with an easy smile.

The same smile spread across Octavia’s face and she moved out onto the field.  “Should I go get Jackson?  Make it an even number?” she asked.

“Please.  We could take you guys with our hands tied behind our backs,” Clarke bragged.  Jasper dropped back to get the ball back in play, and the game began in earnest.

With the exception of Harper’s breathtaking kicks and Octavia’s speed, they were generally pretty terrible.  Clarke blamed the ball’s lopsidedness when she tripped over it three times in a row, having expected it to keep rolling instead of rocking to a stop.  Bellamy laughed at her, but then he managed to stumble over it just a few minutes later.  

Monty managed to get one goal past Jasper and Bryan squeaked one past Harper after a quick assist from Bellamy.  Emori wandered over but waved off their offer of joining them, instead sitting down with Raven to watch.  They both agreed that Clarke’s attempt at a side tackle on Bellamy was illegal, so Clarke let him take a penalty kick that Harper blocked with ease.  Emori proclaimed herself open to bribes, which caused Murphy to punt the ball in her general direction.  Raven threw it back and Bryan tried another long kick, but Harper dove to block it.

Harper’s next kick went wild and the ball sailed into nearby woods.  Murphy ran to get it and Bellamy drew up next to Clarke.  He smiled at her and she smiled back because right now— in that very moment— her friends were happy and so was she.  Murphy returned and they sprang back into action.  And none of them cared that the ball barely rolled, or that there weren’t really sidelines, or really anything in the way of rules except for whatever Raven and Emori felt like declaring.

Because they were happy.

  
  



	29. Going for the Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because @bgonemydear wanted a bellarke Olympic AU.

“Come on, O!” a familiar voice called from the stands.  

Octavia saluted the judges and mounted the beam with practiced ease.  The rest of the team crowded around Clarke and she mentally crossed her fingers, holding her breath. You never knew when the camera might focus in on your face, especially when you were the daughter of two Olympians in addition to being a three-time gold medalist who was now coaching her first Olympic Team.  Clarke herself was a hell of a story, and if she betrayed even the tiniest sliver of doubt for Octavia someone would notice.

On the other side of the gym a Russian’s floor ex music began and Octavia launched into her first series of moves.  Beam had never been Clarke’s favorite apparatus— that was vault, all power and speed and explosive jumps— but it was Octavia’s second best after bars.  Her long lines made every movement seem more graceful and deliberate and she never wobbled, not even when she had a blind landing.  Octavia’s nerves of steel made her a perfect fit for these events and her smile won over even the toughest of judges.  Harper might be their all-around champ, but Octavia was something special and Clarke had known it since she first saw her bickering with her brother in the gym.

That brother sucked in a sharp breath when it looked like Octavia over rotated her pirouette and Clarke bit back a smile.  For her first year of coaching Bellamy had been a thorn in her side, constantly questioning if she was up to the task of coaching his precious little sister.  He’d assumed she got the job because of her name, not her skill, and it wasn’t until Octavia took gold in bars at Worlds that he finally backed off.  It had been another few months before he officially apologized, sheepishly admitted he’d misjudged her while the rest of the team celebrated at their annual gym Christmas party.  Clarke had briefly considered holding on to her grudge— he’d been a massive dick to her, for no real reason— but she’d had a glass of wine or two and there was something appealing about his dark brown eyes, so she’d shrugged.   _ It happens,  _ she said, and with those two words everything shifted.

And now Bellamy was no longer an adversary— he was her ally.  He’d been watching Octavia tumble for years and had a knack for noticing when one of Clarke’s girls was struggling.  He’d even helped her settle a squabble between Fox and Monroe, talking out a solution with Clarke over beers in a hotel bar.  The team traveled a lot and Clarke felt his absence keenly on the nights he couldn’t come.  She told herself it was because she missed having another grown up around, but part of her knew that wasn’t all of it.  She missed hugging him good night, and she missed his broad smile whenever any one of their girls stuck a landing or pulled off a tricky move.  She missed his support, because when Bellamy decided you were one of his people his loyalty was unwavering.  She’d even gone so far as to pay for his plane ticket to Rio, arguing that the team saw him as their good luck charm when in reality she just couldn’t imagine going through the stress of another Olympics on her own.  Clarke hadn’t realized just how lonely it was until she suddenly wasn’t alone anymore.  

Octavia flipped through her last combination and dismounted— an Arabian double front— sticking the landing perfectly.  The crowd behind them exploded and Clarke could hear Bellamy shouting with the rest of the audience, because if Octavia got the score Clarke suspected she had, Monroe could do a front handspring off the vault and they would still medal.  If Monroe even came close to landing her vault they would have gold, and Clarke’s first attempt at coaching Olympians would officially be a success.

The last rotation had Monroe nailing her vault and Fox sticking hers with just the tiniest of hops, and then the rest of the night was a blur of interviews, hugs, and celebrations.  Clarke didn’t get a chance for anything more than a quick hug from Bellamy, but once she’d shepherded her girls back onto the team bus to the village she turned around and saw him standing a few feet away, a gentle smile on his face.  “Congrats, coach,” he said, and Clarke bit her lip to keep from smiling again.

“They did it, not me,” she insisted.

“Well, you helped,” he teased.  

Clarke hesitated, because the bus driver was waiting and the girls still had their individual events coming up.  But Bellamy was smiling at her and she was giddy with happiness, so she darted over to him and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.  “Thanks,” she whispered, and bolted back to the bus before her blush became too obvious.

 

 


	30. Deserving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just felt like writing some angsty Bellamy/Echo sorta hatesex.
> 
> That's it, really.

“I think it’s worthwhile to revisit a priority list,” Abby said, and Bellamy scrubbed a hand across his eyes, fighting against the anger bubbling in his veins.  “When we think about the future, we have to consider—”

But what Abby wanted them to consider Bellamy didn’t stick around to hear.  He stood up and stalked off, ignoring Clarke’s protests from the chair next to him.  He couldn’t sit in a room and debate who would live and who would die for another second.  He didn’t understand why they insisted he stay, even after he’d made his opinion clear.  Clarke refused to take part in the talks without him, and Kane had cornered him on the long march back to Arkadia to beg him to reconsider.   _ Without Clarke we have no hope of convincing the Grounders,  _ Kane had argued.   _ And without you, we don’t have Clarke. _

So Bellamy had sat in on the talks because after all the lives he’d taken he owed it to them to save the ones he could.  He sat there and listened for hours as people tried to come up with an equitable way to decide people’s fates.  Bellamy didn’t have any solutions, but he knew for damn sure he didn’t deserve to be on the list.

_ You don’t need me.  You need farmers, engineers, mechanics.  You need Monty and Raven and Miller.   _ Miller could protect them from whatever they needed protecting from without crossing a line.  He wasn’t a monster; he didn’t have blood covering his hands.  Men like Miller would make the next world a better place, not a worse one.

Not like he would.

Bellamy walked blindly out of the makeshift council room and to the gate.  A handful of tents were scattered around outside the walls and Bellamy strode past the one Octavia now shared with Indra without a second glance.  Octavia seemed like a stranger to him now, and he knew where the blame for that rested.

He knew where the blame for almost everything rested, and that was why he couldn’t bear to be a part of that discussion any longer.  The world was ending in six months and Bellamy Blake would end with it, and that was no less than he deserved.  It was fitting, really, that after irradiating the mountain he was going to die of radiation himself, the sort of sick twist of fate that villains met in storybooks.

He was a villain, after all.  So it fit.

Branches swatted at his face but he didn’t slow down, plowing heedlessly through the forest.  He wondered if the noise he was making would bring a panther down on him and then wondered if he even cared.  He was going to die soon anyway.  Why not get it over with? He wondered if the stories his mother had told him were true— would she be waiting for him in the afterlife?  Would Gina?

Or would he be faced with everyone he’d killed?  Would he die and wake up to Lincoln and Fox and Maya, Wells and Charlotte and Finn and hundreds of nameless faces, the people he’d killed and the people he’d failed to save, waiting for their vengeance?  Did Gina want vengeance?  

He wouldn’t blame her if she did.  Her death was on him too, just like all of them.

A branch snapped behind him and he spun around, his hand dropping to the knife at his hip.  “No gun?” Echo asked with a cruel smile.  “I thought Skaikru wouldn’t leave their walls without them.”

She didn’t get to know why he wasn’t carrying one— not after what she’d done.  “Fuck you,” he spat, but Echo didn’t even flinch.  Seeing her was like salt on a wound.  Everything hinged on her— if he hadn’t trusted her, if he hadn’t wanted to believe her, if he hadn’t left Gina behind, if if _if_.  The moment Echo had come rushing out of the woods was the moment he lost everything, and she didn’t even care.

She shrugged.  “We were at war.”

A red haze descended across his line of vision.  “Gina— she had nothing to do with your war.  She was innocent.”   _ She’s too good for you,  _ Raven had said, and he knew she was joking but he also knew she was right.  Everyone could see it but him, and it was his blindness that killed her.

Interest flickered in her eyes.  “Gina?  I thought Wanheda’s name was Clarke,” Echo smirked.

His throat closed up and he clenched his hands into fists.   _ Does everyone know?  Did Gina? _  That thought haunted him more than any other— when Gina was dying, did she hate him for choosing Clarke? “Fuck you,” he said again, and Echo gave a lazy shrug and disappeared back into the underbrush, leaving him along with his demons.

* * *

 

Bellamy didn’t see Echo for another two days.  He knew she was there, part of the Ice Nation’s entourage, but he avoided going outside the gates and she never came in. 

But that night Raven talked him into joining The End of the World Party, as Jasper kept calling it.  It happened every night in the clearing outside the eastern wall— a giant bonfire, drums, and endless moonshine.  Once word of their doom had gotten out some decide to just embrace it, and Raven flat out refused to leave his room until he agreed to accompany her.  But now she, Monty, and Harper were talking and joking, moonshine loosening their limbs and their tongues, while Bellamy just sat and stared at the fire.  

He waited until they were all laughing at something Harper had said to melt away into the darkness.  He skirted the Grounder camp, his eyes on his feet, and almost bulled right into her.  Bellamy’s hands went out automatically to catch her, only to draw back like he’d been scalded once he realized who it was.  “Not enjoying the party?” Echo asked playfully.

“Whatever,” he grumbled, and moved to shoulder past her.

A hand on his elbow stopped him.  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice low and throaty.  “It was war, but that doesn’t make your loss less painful.”  

Bellamy searched her face for a sign of mockery, but this time he found none.  “Thank you,” he muttered, but she didn’t let go of his jacket.

“Will it hurt?” she asked, serious, and it took him a second to realize what she was asking.  “Is it like an arrow or a slow bleed?”

“Slow,” he said, even as the word caught in his throat.  “It’s like...burning.”

Echo closed her eyes and she nodded.  She stepped closer to him and Bellamy wanted to draw back, but he didn’t.  Her lips twitched into something like a smile. “I suppose it’s what I deserve.”

_ It is, _  he wanted to say, but then again, who was he to wish that on her?  “You should go.  Spend time with your family,” he said instead.  

“There’s no one,” she replied, and looked down.  Bellamy abruptly realized how close he was standing to her, close enough to see her eyelashes in the moonlight.  Echo was as tall as he was, maybe even taller, but she seemed small somehow— alone.  “We could...forget.  For awhile,” she said, and when she looked him in the eye there was no doubt as to what she was offering.

He wanted to say no.  He  _ needed  _ to say no.  He owed that much to Gina, but Echo lifted her other hand to his cheek and he couldn’t walk away.  

He wasn’t sure who kissed who first— it was more like they crashed together, desperate and needy, because the world was ending and they were alone.  Echo was all lean muscles where Gina had been soft curves, and they didn’t bother stripping out of their clothes.  She shoved off his jacket and he skinned down her leggings and that was it, because this wasn’t about love or even lust.

This was about forgetting.  

Their kisses were all teeth and snarls, and her nails were sharp when she slipped her hands under his shirt.  Bellamy pushed her up against a tree and hitched her leg around his hip, pushing inside of her in one quick thrust.  She was warm and wet, and Bellamy lost himself in the way she felt.  Echo sank her teeth into his lip and pressed her fingers to her clit, and Bellamy held back until she was coming undone.  Then he let himself go, and the moment it was over the guilt returned.

Echo straightened her clothes out and he angrily brushed the pine needles off his jacket.  “Good night, Bellamy,” she said softly, and then left him behind.

Alone.

It was no less than what he deserved.

  
  



	31. Little Free Library

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon requested Bellamy and Gina and a Little Free Library. And in a shocking change of pace for me, I went with something that is pure fluff.

At first, Bellamy rolled his eyes at the idea of the Little Free Library.  It seemed like a gimmick that would disappear once the novelty wore off, and besides, he couldn’t imagine parting with any of his books.  He had a hard enough time loaning his books out to Miller after that incident with a cup of coffee and Braudel’s _Structures of Everyday Life_. Bellamy didn’t even like that book— it was way outside his subject area– but he just couldn’t handle books being damaged.  So when his new neighbor set one up in her front yard, he grumbled under his breath and ignored it. **  
**

But one afternoon on the long walk back from the bus stop, something caught his eye.  It was the familiar blue bands that he noticed first and he paused midstep to inspect it.  Somehow, his neighbor had a copy of Fagles’ translation of _The Iliad._

She had a copy, and she was _giving it away._

That bugged him even more than his precious books being ruined, because a copy like that— hardly even read, judging by the spine— deserved better than to be left in a wooden box out in the elements.  However, if what he remembered about these things were correct, he was supposed to leave a book in exchange, so he hurried back to the apartment he was renting above Indra’s garage and dug through a box of books in his closet.  He came up with a dog-eared copy of _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone_ and headed back outside on his rescue mission.

Maybe going on a _rescue mission_ for a book was a little overdramatic, but still.  That translation was a gift, something he constantly reminded the students in his discussion section.  His neighbor might not appreciate it, but he’d find it a good home.

Except just as he was making the swap, the neighbor herself made an appearance.  “Oh hey!” she said cheerfully from her front step.  “I think you’re the first to use that.  Whatcha taking?”

“ _The Iliad_ ,” he said gruffly, because happy people tended to unnerve him.

“Oh awesome!  I love that translation.”

Bellamy finally looked up at her and took in her curls and bright smile.  She was cute, if you liked happy people.  “And you’re getting rid of it?” he asked, unable to keep the note of judgment out of his voice.

“Oh, well, just that copy.  I have another one inside.  I got that one when I TA’ed a class on World Lit.”

“You’re a grad student too?”

“Former.  I got a Master’s Degree in Lit, so naturally now I work in sales at a biotech company,” she said with a laugh.  “I’m Gina, by the way.  I assume you’re a grad student?”

“Bellamy, and yeah, grad student.  Doctoral program.”

“In what?”  She shifted the purse on her shoulder but made no move towards the tan sedan behind him that he assumed was hers.

“History.”

“Hence _The Iliad._  Got it— makes sense.  Mind if I see what you’re leaving?” she asked, and he internally marveled at the way her smile never wavered.  Monty was the closest thing to _cheerful_ he had in his friend group, but there was something appealing about Gina in spite of (or maybe because of, he really wasn’t sure) her ever present smile.

“Uh, this,” he said, holding up the battered copy of _Harry Potter_.  “It’s also a duplicate, and it’s, uh…seen better days?”

“Then it was well loved,” she said, and then glanced down at a thin gold watch.  “But dammit, I have to go— you live around here, right?”

“Yeah, uh, just a few doors down.  I rent the apartment behind Indra, if you know her.”

“I met her out one morning on a run, yeah.  But…maybe I’ll see you around?” she asked, and to Bellamy’s everlasting shock, he found himself smiling back.

“I hope so,” he said, and he meant it.


	32. Little Free Library (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midnightoverlord requested established bellina +supermarket fluff. Sequel to chapter 31.

There were some things about dating Gina that Bellamy just couldn’t quite get used to. The constant smiling he’d adjusted to by the end of their first date (it was one of the things he loved about her now), and he didn’t mind too much when she’d leave her clothes strewn all over the floor.  He might grumble a bit when he tripped on her sweatshirt, but he liked that she felt comfortable enough in his place to make herself at home.

But even after six months, he still couldn’t get used to the touching.  Not the way she did it.  It wasn’t that he didn’t like it, but Bellamy wasn’t used to someone wanting to touch him.  His only other serious relationship was Echo, and mostly they fought when they weren’t fucking, so this— hands twining together while they walked, kisses on the cheek in the middle of the grocery store-- caught him off guard.  Bellamy was used to being the one who initiated those sorts of careless signs of coupledom, and whenever Gina did he was surprised.  

Like just now, when she kissed his cheek when he suggested making dinner for her grandmother on Saturday.  “Think she’d like spaghetti?” he asked, and Gina beamed.

“She’d love it,” she said, and he got another kiss on the cheek.

Bellamy smiled back— he smiled now, often enough that Octavia had asked where her brother had gone-- and shifted the basket to his other hand.  “Then we’ll need to get some sauce,” he said, and draped his free arm around her shoulder.  Gina slung her arm across his back and he pressed a kiss to her temple.

Part of him wondered when she would realize she could do better.

But for now, he let himself be happy.

  
  



	33. Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Jonathan/Nancy Stranger Things bellarke AU for @reblogginhood.
> 
> (slightly spoilery for Stranger Things, obvi)

“Can you stay?”

Her voice was so quiet that for a moment, Bellamy thought he was imagining things.  There was no way that Clarke Griffin— pretty, popular Clarke Griffin— wanted him to stay.  Not even after they’d fought that thing that had taken Octavia and Wells, a nightmare of a monster whose bloodcurdling shrieks still rang in his ears.

Because Clarke was a lot of things, but  _ frightened  _ wasn’t one of them.  Clarke had stood her ground and fired off round after round while that thing charged her and when that failed to stop it she’d fought it hand to claw and face to fang.  She was still covered in the sticky goo that oozed from the monster’s pores and up until this very second she hadn’t betrayed even a hint of fear.

But now, perched on her bed with her hands clasped between her knees, she took a shaky breath.  “Just for tonight,” she said in that same tiny voice that reached into his heart and twisted it so tightly it was hard for him to breathe.

Bellamy lifted his hand and hesitated before he rested it on her back.  He’d wrapped her in his jacket on the long walk back from the woods because she couldn’t stop shivering.  He'd thought she was cold but now they were in her bright, cozy room and still she trembled.  “Yeah,” he said, his voice cracking with the remnants of fear.  “Yeah, I can.”  There wasn’t anyone waiting for him at home, after all.  Octavia was gone—  _ gone, _  not dead, no matter what Sheriff Kane said— and his mother had been nearly catatonic since the morning they woke up to discover the one good thing in their family was missing.  Aurora wouldn’t notice if Bellamy didn’t come home, knowledge that at once saddened and comforted him because tonight he didn’t want to go home either.

_ Home  _ meant walking past Octavia’s door.  It meant seeing his mother’s blank eyes.  It meant ignoring the silence that blared from Octavia’s room instead of whatever pop princess she decided she loved that week.  Home meant knowing he’d failed Octavia, and home meant being alone.  So Bellamy shooed Clarke gently towards her bathroom and dug out a sleeping bag from under her bed.  He snatched a frilly pillow from her bed, a soft yellow that matched the swirls of pinks and creams and pastels that coated her room.

Clarke emerged, her hair dripping, and wordlessly climbed under her covers.  “Do you want the light on?” she asked, and Bellamy stared up at her ceiling, debating.  Every time he closed his eyes he could see that  _ thing  _ closing in on them.  He could hear its screams and smell its foul breath and his heart picked up with every creak and groan the floorboards made.  But he wasn’t sure that having the light on or off would make every difference because Bellamy wasn’t scared of the dark, he was scared of what would emerge from it.

“Whatever you want,” he said finally, and the light stayed on.

But he could tell she wasn’t asleep, because he wasn’t anywhere near it either.  “Could you— could you come up here?” Clarke whispered.

Bellamy swallowed.   _ Finn  _ hung heavy in the air, unspoken and unmentioned but still present.  There was a line somewhere up ahead and Bellamy wondered if he would cross it, and then he wondered if he  _ cared  _ if he crossed it.

He decided he didn’t.

Bellamy carefully peeled back the covers and laid down.  He stayed on his back, fighting the urge to curl around Clarke and let her heat and warmth and softness drive back the terror, and she rolled to face him.  “We’ll be okay,” he lied, because monsters were real.

“You don’t know that,” she said, and she sounded more like the Clarke he knew from a distance— controlled, brave, and decisive.  The Clarke he saw at school, laughing and joking with her friends.  The Clarke who had probably never noticed him even though he couldn't help but notice her.  “We don’t know where it went.”

It was that, more than anything, that kept him from being able to shut his eyes.  One minute the monster was there, fighting off his assault like he was no more than an annoying fly while it tried to tear out Clarke's throat, and the next it was gone.  He blinked and it disappeared, like he'd imagined the whole thing.  Bellamy might have told himself he did, except Octavia was gone and Clarke had seen it too.  

Bellamy turned and rested his cheek on her pillow, so close he could feel her breath.  “Then at least we won’t be alone,” he whispered, and a soft, sad smile flickered across her face.  Clarke wriggled closer and Bellamy threw his arm around her, drawing her against his chest.

And somewhere out in the darkness, a monster lurked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this universe there are no creeper photos because that was probably my least favorite thing in the whole season so I'm pretending it didn't happen.


	34. Darkness (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the same Stranger Things au as chapter 33.

Clarke held the cloth under the faucet, watching it shift from red to pink as the blood swirled down the drain.  She shut off the water and twisted the rag until it stopped dripping.  Bellamy was sitting at the small table near the break room sink, his head in his hands.  She sat down and gently took the hand not clutching an ice pack in hers, patting at the scraped and bleeding knuckles as best she could.  

Finn sat sullenly next to Deputy DuBois’s desk, but Clarke didn’t feel guilty about ignoring his injuries right now. Maybe it was Murphy who actually spray painted the word  _ slut  _ after her name, but Finn was right there, pretending like he couldn’t stop him.  Bellamy had only landed a punch or two on Finn before turning on Murphy, and it had taken all of Clarke and Finn’s combined strength to pull Bellamy off of him.

“Let me see the cut on your cheek,” she said, and Bellamy looked at her for the first time since Indra had broken up the fight.  His eyes were dark and haunted, and she knew he was wondering if Murphy was right, and Octavia really  _ was  _ dead.  But if Octavia was dead so was Wells, and Clarke wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice hoarse.  

“Let me see it,” she said again, and he pulled the ice away.

He already had the beginnings of a shiner developing around his eye socket and Murphy’s fist had split the skin on his cheekbone, not deep enough to scar but deep enough for Clarke to feel it in her chest.  “Thank you,” she said as she held his chin in one hand, tilting his face towards the light so she could be sure the wound was clean.

Bellamy winced and shrank from her touch.  “It’s my fault they said that about you,” he muttered.

Clarke summoned a breeziness she didn’t quite feel and clucked her tongue.  “No, it’s not.  No one made them do that,” she chided in an eery imitation of her mother’s best bedside manner.  Bellamy flicked his eyes towards her, doubt and fear and worry warring with something that might have been disbelief.  He looked at her like that a lot, she’d noticed, like he wasn’t sure she was real.  “Thank you,” she said again, letting her hands drop from his face.

His hand found hers on her knee, warm and steady in spite of everything.  He squeezed it and nodded, a half smile emerging.

A week ago she had been making Homecoming plans with Finn and working on her English homework with Wells.  Bellamy was just an angry kid in some of her classes, fiercely protective of his sister and openly scornful of anyone from her side of town.  And now she was holding his hand because he was the only other person who believed that Wells and Octavia were alive.  He had seen the monster with her, had fought it, had spent last night holding her while she pretended to sleep and instead just listened to the steady beat of his heart.

She squeezed his hand back and nodded.  She didn’t recognize the world she was living in any more, but at least she wasn’t alone.

Because there was a monster out there, and they were coming for it.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wavered on whether or not to make Finn the Steve in this scenario, because aside from the hair + general fuckboy attitude Finn is a much better human than Steve.
> 
> But in the end, hair + general fuckboy attitude won out.


	35. Banished

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because it's marycontrary82's birthday.

Bellamy hesitantly approached the gate.  Behind it, across a narrow bridge, the castle loomed.  He craned his neck to see the top; grim, grey towers poked into the clouds that always seemed to lurk in this part of the kingdom.  No one had seen the princess in years— she had disappeared shortly after her sixteenth birthday, banished to this castle for reasons no one cared to explain to peasants like him. **  
**

But if his gut was right, this was where Octavia was.  She hadn’t returned from the market in the capitol last night, and he knew something was wrong.  He’d traversed the entire road through the woods to no avail, asking everyone he passed if they had seen her.  As far as he could discover, Octavia had arrived at the market safely and left when the sun sank behind the mountains, but no one beyond the castle had seen her.  What a banished princess would want with Octavia he couldn’t understand, but if there was even the slightest chance of finding her he would risk the wrath of the crown without a second thought.

He pushed on the wrought iron gate and it creaked open with a rusty shriek.  No one appeared to stop him or challenge his progress across the bridge and he drew to a stop before the imposing wooden doors.  He knocked, unsure of what he would find.

The door opened of its own accord, revealing a grand staircase that disappeared into darkness.  Torches danced on the the walls but no one came to greet him— no servants, no princess, and no Octavia.  “Hello?” he called, but the only response was his own echo.  Bellamy walked up the staircase to a long balcony.  He heard a noise to his left, but when he turned he saw only shadows.  There was a spiraling staircase to his right and he cautiously started up the tower.  “Hello?” he called again, and this time, he heard something.  A faint voice, calling for him.  “O?  Is that you?” he shouted, not caring if the inhabitants of the castle— if there were any— were disturbed.

He ran up the stairs, Octavia’s voice growing louder with every step.  He came up against a thick oak door, bars set into a small opening.  “O?  Are you all right?” he asked, and her hands curled around the bars.  

“I’m fine,” she replied.  In the gloom he could barely see her, but she sounded strong.  Relief coursed through him, despite everything.  “But Bell, you have to go.  I was trespassing, and the princess—”

“– the princess does not allow that,” a voice behind them rasped.  “And now she is my prisoner.”

Bellamy spun, but the woman was hidden in the shadows. A sudden burst of inspiration hit him. “Let her go,” he offered.  “Please. Let me take her place.”

“No!” Octavia cried, but Bellamy put himself in front of her to block her from the princess.

“You are trespassing too,” the princess snarled.  “Perhaps you should simply join her.”

“Please,” he begged, his mother’s dying wish echoing in his ears.  “Please, take me, and let her go.”

The princess remained silent, but then there was the sound of a lock springing open and the door swung outwards.  Octavia tumbled into his arms and then was wrenched away by an invisible force.  “Bell, don’t—” she yelled, fighting against whatever was dragging her down the stairs.  Something hit him from behind and he stumbled into her cell, the door swinging shut in his face.

“You could have let me say goodbye,” he spat, anger overruling his fear for the moment.

Bellamy glared at the shadows where she stood.  He could see the hem of a dress, midnight blue, and her fingertips.  He squinted in the dim light, because her fingers…her hand looked human, but her nails were long and terrible.

No, not nails— _claws._

She shrank back as if she could read his mind.

“You are brave to offer to take her place,” the princess said in that dark, angry tone.  “I pray you don’t regret it.”  The darkness shrouding her swirled and the princess vanished, leaving him alone in his cell.

There was a small window behind him, and when Bellamy peered out he saw a carriage crossing the bridge, Octavia’s head peeking out the window to take one last look at him.

And then she was gone.


	36. California Dreams (III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybodydeservestea asked for a part III to The OC au. (Sequel to chapters 16 and 19.)

Bellamy kicked his foot out and watched the lights dance across the bottom of the pool.  The water was cool and still except for where his movement sent ripples flowing across the surface.  It was still hard for him to believe that this was his house, and every morning he opened his eyes wondering if it was just a dream. **  
**

But it wasn’t.  This was his life now, less than twenty miles from where he grew up and an entirely different planet.  The adjustment had been harder on Octavia but she’d finally found some friends, a couple of nerds who mostly liked to set off fireworks from the beach.  She was out with them now and the Jahas were at a benefit, leaving him home alone for the first time in weeks.  Charity galas seemed to happen all the time here— a fundraiser for something or other where the richest people in the county would spend thousands of dollars on dresses and dinner just to donate a couple hundred to some nameless _good cause_.  Bellamy had skipped this one, not quite up to seeing Clarke.  

He had been avoiding her since the party, the memory of her lips against his entirely too potent.  Something about her kept him off balance, but it wasn’t the piercings and tattoos because he could see through those easily enough.  It was something deeper, something that frightened him because he knew that if he let himself, he’d fall in love with her.  And no matter what, at the end of the day, she was from this world and he wasn’t.  The gulf between him and her was too big, no matter how much he wanted it to disappear.

The sound of sandals slapping against concrete made him look up and his heart skipped a beat.  Because there she was, in cut off shorts and a loose tank top but somehow still looking like a Renaissance painting come to life.  “Thought you had a benefit tonight,” he called, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

“I bailed,” she called back.  “I hate those things.  What’s your excuse?”

“I got kicked out of the last one for punching Murphy?”

Clarke laughed and kicked off her flip flops to dip her feet in the pool.  She sat close to him— too close.  He could feel the heat radiating from her skin even though their legs weren’t quite touching.  “Don’t you always end up punching Murphy?”

“Pretty much,” he agreed with a rueful laugh.  Clarke bumped him with her shoulder and kicked her foot out, splashing his knee.  He laughed again, but then he looked at her and it died in his throat.  She was right there— closer than they’d been since they lost control in the closet.  Clarke dropped her gaze to his lips and fell quiet.  “What are we doing?” he asked, the words coming out before he could stop them.

Clarke looked down at the pool, but he reached out and tipped her chin up.  His thumb skimmed her cheekbone and she swallowed.  “I like you,” she said quietly.

“I’m not part of this life, you know.”

“But you are.  You’re Wells’ brother now.  And even if you weren’t, I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t care.”

Slowly he closed the distance between them.  That night at the party had been out of control, lust and need and sparks flying through his veins.  But this time, he just brushed her lips, gentle and searching.  Clarke’s hand cupped his jaw and opened her mouth, welcoming his tongue with a soft sigh.  

Bellamy pulled back, just slightly, and rested his forehead against hers.  This felt momentous somehow, and his heart was racing.  “I like you too,” he whispered.


	37. Stress Baking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon asked for fluffy bellarke + "Why haven't you kissed me before?"

Whenever things got to be too much, Clarke would bake.  The repetitive measuring and mixing always calmed her down, and she got pretty good at it.  Now her friends would look forward to the worst weeks of med school because it meant they were ensured a constant stream of cupcakes, cookies, and pies.  It indulged both sides of her brain— the precise, exacting medical student and the creative, free flowing artist, working in perfect harmony for once. **  
**

She was halfway into a chocolate espresso cheesecake when Bellamy walked in.  “I didn’t know you had a test this week,” he observed, pocketing the key she’d given him after she got sick of having to interrupt whatever she was doing to buzz him in.

“I didn’t.  This is just general life stress,” she said, adding an egg and turning on her mixer.

“What’s wrong?”  Bellamy helped himself to a handful of chocolate chips that she had sitting out.

“Stop it, those are the garnish,” she said, slapping his hand away.  “And it’s…nothing, really.”

 _Nothing_ really meant _I realized I’m in love with you and you clearly don’t feel the same way_ but Clarke wasn’t about to say that out loud.  She checked the recipe and tipped her chin towards the ground espresso near his elbow.  Bellamy handed it over and she measured it out before dumping it into her turquoise Kitchenaid.  “Hey, what is it?” Bellamy said gently.  

 _Of course he would notice.  He notices everything about me except for the one big thing, and the fact that he doesn’t see it tells me everything I need to know._ “Nothing.”  Clarke moved the lever to _stir_ and wiped her hands on her apron.  Bellamy was the one who had given it to her last Christmas along with an old plaid shirt of his, because he felt it was important that she have a smock for painting and an apron for baking, instead of her old method which was “whatever she happened to be wearing at the time, crossed fingers, and a lot of stain remover.”

“Clarke, whatever it is— you can tell me,” he said, and he turned her to face him.

His eyes were soft and searching, and honestly, it _hurt._   It hurt to be this close to him and not have him, so Clarke did something insanely reckless.  Something that could jeopardize their friendship; something that would change things between them forever.

She kissed him.

She just rolled up on her toes and planted her mouth on his and then stepped back, bracing for the fallout and the inevitable _I’m sorry, I just don’t see you that way._

But instead, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her back.  Clarke groped out blindly and switched off the mixer, letting him press her into the countertop.  She lost track of time, her in her apron and him in his Georgetown hoodie, kissing in her kitchen that smelled like vanilla.

Bellamy’s lips were swollen when they finally came up for air.  “Why haven’t you kissed me before?” he asked with wonder in his voice.

Clarke ran her fingers through his now-rumpled hair and smiled.  “I honestly have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Baking can help you relax because it's relatively simple, but the steps require just enough attention that your brain can't worry *and* focus on measuring out a quarter cup of sugar at the same time.


	38. Missing Them Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon asked for Bellarke in a Life As We Know It situation, where they have to care for their now-deceased best friends' infant despite hating each other.

“I know, I know,” Clarke murmured sympathetically, but Georgia kept screaming.  Clarke bounced up and down, patting Georgia’s back to no avail.  Tears welled in Clarke’s own eyes, because Georgia was crying for her mother and father and that was the one thing Clarke couldn’t give her.  Clarke walked back and forth across the pink and green rug Maya had so lovingly picked out for Georgia’s room and cuddled her goddaughter close.  This wasn’t the life she had imagined for herself, but when she got the news about the car accident Clarke was willing to give it all up if it meant being able to care for a little piece of Wells.

The week after the funeral Clarke quit her job and found a new one in the Emergency Room at Arkadia General— although this small town’s ER saw far less action than her old one— and moved into the guest room in Wells and Maya’s tidy colonial.  She knew she was in Wells’ will as Georgia’s guardian but she didn't realize that Maya’s college friend was in there too.  And she never expected he would join her, steadfastly refusing to let her do it alone.  She had only met him once, at Georgia’s christening, and all she remembered from that was thinking that he looked nice in a suit.

He probably still did, but her opinion of him had changed entirely.

Bellamy had found a job at the local high school three days after Clarke started hers, but that was about the only thing that went smoothly about this transition.  They didn’t see eye-to-eye on almost anything, and every conversation with Bellamy was a battle.  He criticized the way she made formula, and Clarke felt he was shockingly lax about washing off Georgia’s pacifier when it fell.  They had managed to agree that Clarke would work nights to keep Georgia out of daycare as long as possible, but even that had taken far longer than it should have.  It was just too much— losing Wells, moving, and becoming a mother-of-sorts in two weeks was exhausting without having to negotiate every single thing with someone else.

Clarke pressed her cheek to Georgia’s soft dark curls and blinked back tears.  “I know, I miss them too,” she whispered, and when she turned she saw Bellamy standing in the doorway, his arms crossed as he leaned against the doorjamb.  “Sorry, I can’t get her to settle down,” she said, entirely too tired to deal with whatever fight they’d find themselves in this time.

“It’s okay,” Bellamy said with surprising gentleness.  “She misses them.  Here,” he offered, and cuddled Georgia into the crook of his neck.  She kept crying as Bellamy swayed from side to side,  _ shhing  _ her softly.  Bellamy met her eyes across room, his expression hard to read in the dim light cast by Georgia’s star-shaped nightlight.  “I miss them too,” he said, and Clarke saw a tear track down his cheek.

Suddenly, none of the shit they’d fought about— the brand of her diapers, her bedtime routine, her nap times, all of it— mattered very much.  Bellamy held out his arm and Clarke stepped into his chest, the tears she’d been fighting since Georgia woke up now flowing down her cheeks.  The arm that wasn’t holding Georgia encircled her tightly and he pressed his lips to the crown of her head.

If nothing else, they could miss them together. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me forever to write because I couldn't decide who to kill off. RIP, Wells and Maya. You're too good for this world.


	39. Adoration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @apanoplyofsong request bellarke + "I adore you."

Bellamy opened one eye, sleepy and soft.  “Are you watching me sleep?” he asked in his thick, raspy morning-voice. **  
**

Clarke pushed a curl back from his forehead and shrugged.  “Maybe.”

He rolled to his side, fully awake now.  “Maybe?” he teased.  Sunlight was streaming in through the window and everything about the moment was alight with yellows and golds.

“I was just…thinking,” she said.  She trailed her finger along his cheekbone until he caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm.  “About how much I love you.”

“Yeah?”  Bellamy wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her until she fell across his chest.

“Yeah,” she laughed, wiggling under the furs until she settled between his legs. Nobody would look for them for a few hours yet and she wanted to enjoy it.  She kissed his jaw and then the tip of his nose, impossibly happy.  For a long time she thought she would never be happy again, and for an even longer time she thought she wouldn’t deserve it.  But right now, the ring Bellamy had found during last year’s salvage mission circling her finger, she was deliriously, positively, incredibly happy.  “But I have a problem, you see,” she said with fake seriousness.  “Because it’s not enough.”

“What’s not enough?”  Bellamy tangled his fingers in her hair at the nape of her neck and tugged her up for a kiss.  “I married you, isn’t that enough?”

Clarke laughed again and kissed his shoulder.  “No, I mean, the word _love_.  It’s not enough, you know?  I don’t just love you, I— I adore you, I need you, I want you, you know?  You’re my best friend, my partner, my—”

Bellamy cut her off with another kiss, this one deeper.  She felt herself responding, even though her thighs still ached sweetly from the night before.  “You’re my everything,” Bellamy whispered, and then there was no more need for talking.

 


	40. The Spelling Bee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @scatteredlogic requested bellarke + "His ego is so visible; I can almost watch it grow." (I tweaked the wording a little bit, however).

Clarke Griffin was serious about three things:  law school, Patriot’s football, and drinking-based competitions.

Okay, that was actually a lie, as Wells would gladly tell you.  Clarke Griffin was serious about almost everything, but  _particularly_ about law school, Patriot’s football, and drinking-based competitions.

Which was how she found herself standing at a microphone, glaring daggers at Bellamy Blake.  They had gotten off on the wrong foot in their 1L Criminal Procedure class and things had only gone downhill from there. They bickered their way through most classes and generally went four rounds on any topic brought up in Law Review. Their animosity, quite frankly, was the stuff of legends.  (Honestly, if he wasn’t so arrogant she would probably like him— he had a certain charm about him that even she had to acknowledge, and he was smart.  Almost frighteningly so, actually.)  And then there was the fact that everyone else she liked seemed to like him— even Raven, and Clarke could usually count on Raven to hate people with her.   _He’s a jackass, but he’s a good jackass_ , Raven had said very unhelpfully.   _And Gina likes him_.

That was another thing that bothered Clarke about Bellamy— he was on frustratingly good terms with his exes, one of whom was now Raven’s girlfriend.  And Gina was _great_ , which Clarke had a hard time squaring with her mental image of Bellamy, and Clarke did not like feeling like she didn’t understand something.

But back to the topic at hand: somehow, Clarke had wound up at a bar with him and she was getting increasingly annoyed with his presence.  Bellamy said something that made everyone burst out laughing, and Clarke muttered “His ego is so big you could see it from space,” to Raven.  Raven snorted into her beer, but Bellamy turned and raised an eyebrow.

“There a problem, princess?”

“Yeah, there’s a problem,” she started, but just then the bartender rang a cowbell, a loud clangor that drowned out everything else.

“Last call for the spelling bee!” the bartender yelled.

Bellamy looked back at her with a dangerous smirk.  “You know what?  Let’s settle this, once and for all.”

“What are your terms?”  She crossed her arms and didn’t fail to notice the way his gaze flickered down for just a second.

“You and me, drunken spelling bee.  Winner takes all, loser admits that the winner is superior in all things.”

“Deal,” she said and stalked over to write down her name. She slapped down the $20 entry fee and watched Bellamy do the same.  She accepted her beer and nodded at the bartender’s instructions before chugging it down.

“You know we have twenty minutes until it starts, right?” Bellamy asked.

Clarke rolled her eyes at him and turned back to Raven, who was sharing a look with Gina.  “What?”

“Nothing,” Gina said breezily, and a short while later Clarke took her place on the makeshift stage. Gina and Raven volunteered to be judges and after Clarke protested— on the basis of a biased jury—  the bartender relented and picked Luna as the third judge.  Clarke liked Luna, even though her Peace-Corps-hippie-vibe didn’t exactly fit in with the rest of the law school crowd.

The first round was ridiculously easy, and both Clarke and Bellamy got through without breaking a sweat— Clarke with  _enlightenment_ and Bellamy with  _congratulations_ — along with a girl with big doe eyes and long brown hair, a burly bearded man, and a 2L Clarke vaguely thought was named Harper.  

Clarke chose a tequila shot for her next pre-round drink, while Bellamy stuck with another beer, and the rest of their friends gave them a wide berth.  “You have your job set up for next year?” he asked casually.

“Why?” she bristled.

“Just making conversation.  Must be nice, you know.”

“What is?”

“Having one of those big firm jobs set,” he shrugged.  “You’ll never have to worry about paying your loans back.”

Clarke was about to issue her rebuttal when the bartender rang the bell for round two, so she consoled herself with shooting Bellamy a dirty look.  Doe Eyes stumbled over _accommodate_ , and Big Beardy fell to _maintenance_.  Clarke was preparing for round three with another tequila shot when she saw Bellamy give Doe Eyes a bear hug.  “What?  She’s my sister’s friend,” he explained, and then took the mic from the bartender.  His eyes were a little glassy and Clarke’s tongue felt too thick for her mouth, but both of them sailed through the round.  Harper forgot that _sheriff_ only had one ‘r’, however, which meant round four was down to the two of them.

Clarke threw back her last shot and turned to Bellamy.  “I’m not, you know.”

“Not what, princess?” he asked, leaning against the bar with his hip.

“Working for a big firm.  I’m going to work for the Public Defender’s office.  Just got the news yesterday.”

Bellamy looked surprised.  “Well then, hope you’re up for more of this, because I accepted their offer today.  Juvenile Court.”

Oddly enough, Clarke wasn’t disappointed, or even annoyed, but she was also entirely too drunk now to really examine that turn of events.  They took their spots near the microphone and Raven grinned evilly from the judge’s desk.  “Clarke, your word is  _cantilever._ ”

“Can you use that in a sentence?” she asked, mostly as a stalling tactic because her brain was definitely moving at half speed.

“There’s no point in me explaining  _cantilever_ to you because you're a law student, not an engineer,” Raven said.  “There, that’s it in a sentence.”

Clarke stuck her tongue out to the amusement of the crowd.  “Okay, _cantilever_.  C-a-n-t…” she trailed off, and Bellamy raised his eyebrows expectantly.  “...i?  Yeah, i.  L-e-v-e-r,  _cantilever._ ”

Bellamy applauded along with everyone else, only to make his own face at Gina when she announced his word was  _bricolage._ “Want me to use that in a sentence for you?” she said innocently.

“No, because you already know how I feel about post-modernist bullshit,” he said with a laugh.  “Okay, um...b-r-i-q—no wait, not q, b-r-i-c-o-l-a-g-e.   _Bricolage,_  and by the way, I hate you.”

Luna waited for the crowd to settle down.  “All right Clarke, your next word is  _rhythm._ ”

“Pssh, that’s easy,  R-h--oh, fuck, hold on, there’s a ‘y’ in there somewhere, isn't there?  R-h-y-t-h-m?”  Clarke was proud of herself for finishing, even if she almost tripped over her own feet while handing the mic to Bellamy.

He steadied her with a hand to her elbow, and if she wasn’t drunk and completely sure that this would never happen, it was almost like they had a  _moment._  A  _moment,_ despite competing in an utterly ridiculous drunken spelling bee and being eternally sworn enemies.

“You two done?  Excellent,” Raven cut in.  “Bellamy, do your best to spell  _refrigeration._ ”

“Next time, give me a hard one Reyes.  R-e-f-r-i-d-g-e-r-a-t-i-o-n _, refrigeration,"_ he announced proudly, and roughly two seconds later a look of dawning realization spread across his face.  “No— wait, I mean— oh, fuck,” he conceded, and Clarke took a sloppy bow.

The bartender handed over her prize— a gift card for the bar for all of $20— and somehow found herself hugging Bellamy happily.  He smelled good, and she liked the way she fit into his arms.  “You put up a good fight,” she said, and it was like she couldn’t stop smiling at him.  Or looking at him, for that matter.

“You too,” he said with the same stupid grin.

Gina, Raven, and Luna buried her in a hug just then, and Clarke spent the next fifteen minutes high-fiving strangers who were impressed by her victory.  She stumbled outside when her phone let her know her Uber had arrived just in time to see Bellamy sliding into a cab.  “Hey— Griffin!” he called, and she stopped with her hand on the car door.  “Looking forward to seeing you around the office next year,” he said, and there it was again— that smile.

“I promise I won’t tell them how much you suck at spelling,” she volleyed back, and he laughed as he waved goodbye.

That morning, Clarke had been sure of three things: she wanted to be a public defender, she loved Georgia O’Keefe above all other artists, and she hated Bellamy Blake.

But now that list was down to two.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never actually attended a Drunken Spelling Bee, but they definitely exist and I fully intend on participating in one soon. Also, aside from bricolage, all of these are words that I, a fully grown adult, struggle to spell even while sober.


	41. Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon asked for "I'm going to take care of you, okay?" and bellarke.

Clarke was walking next to Raven’s cart when her walkie-talkie beeped.  “Can you come back here?” Bellamy’s voice asked through a crackle of static.  “Your mom and Jackson are busy, and we’ve got a minor injury.” **  
**

Clarke looked over to tell Raven, but Raven was deeply engrossed in her conversation with Luna.  Luna was fascinated by their technology and as a result was enraptured by Raven’s explanation of jet propulsion.  It felt good to see Raven smile like that, waving her hands around as she talked Luna through the steps.

Clarke moved out of the flood of people traversing the valley floor and started walking towards to the back, where Bellamy was walking with the baggage and food carts.  She found him sitting underneath an oak tree with the two orphan girls from the Broadleaf clan on either side.  They had joined the exodus to Safe Haven with their mother, who had been chosen for her weaving skills.  But their mother had woken up one morning with abdominal pain and was dead by nightfall— appendicitis, Abby thought, but by the time she’d been called to her side it was too late.  Some of the Council Coalition had wanted to leave the girls behind, seeing Ohi and Eve as nothing more than useless mouths to feed without their mother’s talents, but Bellamy had steadfastly refused to abandon them and Abby and Kane backed him up.  Since then, she had rarely seen him without one or both of them clinging to his hand.

Clarke crouched down to their level and acknowledged Bellamy with a nod.  “What happened?” she asked the elder sister.  Ohi was holding her swollen, puffy ankle, and looked up at Bellamy with a hint of fear. For a moment Clarke was puzzled, but when Ohi’s dark brown eyes flickered back to hers she realized— the child was scared of  _wanheda._  The knowledge made her stomach turn but she forced her smile not to waver.

“It’s okay,” Bellamy told the five year old reassuringly.  “I promise.”

“I tripped,” Ohi mumbled, and Clarke saw tear tracks on her cheeks.

“She stepped in a snake hole.  No snake, just twisted her ankle,” Bellamy supplied.

“Then I’m going to take care of you, okay?  Can I touch your leg?” Clarke asked, and Ohi nodded.  Clarke prodded the swollen tissue as gently as she could, testing Ohi’s reflexes and searching for a bump or spur that would indicate a broken bone.  While she worked, Eve clambered into Bellamy’s lap to watch.  “Good news,” Clarke told her patient.  “It’s not broken, just sprained.  I’m going to wrap it up for you, and then you’ll get to ride in one of the carts for a few days.”  There was plenty of room in Raven’s cart, and since Luna seemed glued to Raven’s side these days Clarke was reasonably sure she could count on Luna to take the small, dark child under her wing while Bellamy stayed with the rear guard.

Clarke rummaged through her pack for a bandage and Bellamy bent down to Ohi’s ear.  “Or you could have a piggy back ride,” he whispered conspiratorially, and Clarke smiled to herself at the way Ohi’s face lit up.  “Want to walk with us?” he asked Clarke, and she did her best to hide her surprise.  Bellamy hadn’t been avoiding her— not exactly— but she felt like he’d been keeping her at arm’s length since the exodus began. Octavia’s anger with him had not abated and she was traveling with the vanguard near Clarke, so Bellamy stuck to the baggage carts and rear guards to give her space.  But Clarke felt like it was more than just a need to give his sister a wide berth— on nights when she didn’t have any medical duties and she sought him out he was polite and friendly, but there was a distance between them now that she didn’t know how to close.  She felt like that with everyone from the dropship, her time in exile and in Polis marking her as separate from the rest of them, but she felt it most keenly with Bellamy.

“I’d love to,” she responded, and helped Ohi climb onto his back.  Eve sought Clarke’s hand, and for half a second Clarke recoiled.  Eve’s dark hair was plaited into two tight braids just like the last little girl who had tried to take her hand.  But Clarke fought against the instinct, reminding herself that the tiny, chubby Eve had nothing to do with Charlotte.  Clarke held her dark brown hand and they made their way back to the long column of people, animals, and carts.  The rovers had been split between the vanguard and the rear guard, with the third operating as a mobile hospital out of the center, and the soft whine of engines mingled with quiet birdsongs and animals rustling in the grass.  Eve walked as quickly as her three year old legs could manage and Bellamy bounced Ohi around on his back until she giggled.  Clarke looked over at him and for the first time in what felt like years— but had probably just been days— he smiled back at her.


	42. Weaving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luna/Raven, set in the same general universe as chapter 41.

Raven leaned back and closed her eyes, Luna’s fingers gently working through her hair.  Luna began at her scalp, her blunt fingernails scratching in a way that made Raven want to purr, and moved down from there.  She eased apart tangles as Raven rested against her knees.  Luna worked quietly, with nothing but the crackle from the fire in front of their tent to break the silence.

Raven had been prepared to hate Luna, just on principle.  She’d never liked the grounders much to begin with and she assumed Luna wouldn’t be any different.  But when the exodus began and Raven was relegated to a cart on Abby’s orders the grounder woman began walking next to her.  Luna was inquisitive, interested in technology in a way most grounders weren’t, and she was kind.

It wasn’t that Raven didn’t have kind people in her life— she did, and she loved them for it.  But Luna’s kindness was something softer and gentler, a kindness that expanded until it encompassed everything and everyone she touched.  The first night they stopped to camp Luna offered to let Raven share her tent and Raven surprised herself by accepting.  She suspected Luna was trying to spare her the difficulties of setting up her own tent and while from anyone else that would feel like pity, from Luna it just felt  _right._ From then on, whenever the column would draw to a stop for the day Raven would join Luna under her green and blue canvas and they would work.  Raven would fiddle with whatever tech had malfunctioned that day and Luna would work on her weaving, their fingers flying over their tools in quiet companionship.

Two nights ago Raven had told her about Finn, doing her best to remember the good times instead of the pain of the end.  Luna had done the same, giggling about the day Derrick tried to impress her with a new net, only to trip on it in front of half of the clan.  They laughed together and then cried, and that night when they slept Raven tucked her arm around Luna’s waist and pulled her back against her chest.

Tonight Luna had abandoned her weaving to brush Raven’s hair instead.  She started braiding strands together, not in the tight, practical grounder braids like Octavia’s, but a soft, loose braid that fell down her back.  “There,” Luna said and draped the braid over her shoulder.

“Thanks,” Raven replied and twisted her neck to back at her.  Luna was smiling down at her and Raven reached up to tuck a strand of hair back behind her ear.  She let her hand linger against Luna’s cheek, her thumb sweeping back and forth almost of its own accord.  Luna placed a delicate kiss on her palm and then looked back at her, hesitant.

Raven moved first.  She drew Luna down and kissed her, Luna’s full lips opening under her own.  The angle was awkward so they shifted, Luna moving forward and Raven moving back until Raven was on her back and Luna was stretched out above her, their tongues dancing slowly.  Luna broke the kiss, her skin aglow in the firelight, and brushed her nose alongside Raven’s.  This was not something that Raven had planned for but somehow, with her fingers tangled into Luna’s curls, it felt more right than anything else on earth.


	43. Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @silas-lehnsherr requested Bellamy and Abby and "I'm going to take care of you, okay?" and I combined that with @rumaan's request for Bellina and "sometimes, I wish you died."

Bellamy never even saw the knife. **  
**

It went in his back, just below his ribs.  He deserved it, he figured, even as Miller took out the Grounder who was supposed to be leading them to an abandoned power plant but instead had been plotting revenge.  Bellamy couldn’t even be upset about the betrayal, although he wished their guide had sprung his trap  _after_ they scouted the location. Now they would have to send out another mission to get a read on the situation and that would waste time they no longer had.  Miller flatly rejected his suggestion of leaving him behind and going on ahead and turned them back towards Arkadia.  Bellamy made it half a day under his own power, grimacing with each step, and after that he had to lean on Miller’s shoulder.

He was delirious from blood loss and burning with fever by the time they made it back to Arkadia two days later, and when he saw Abby’s face he knew it was too late.  “I’m going to take care of you, okay?” she said, and he had heard those words before from a Griffin woman.  He knew what they meant and couldn’t even muster up the strength to be upset.  He only wished he had time to make things right with Octavia.  But already the darkness was narrowing his vision, so he focused on Abby’s face and grabbed her hand.

“Don’t let her see,” he rasped.  Clarke had already lost so many people she loved, had already witnessed so much death.  He didn’t want to be one more.

“Don’t worry about that right now,” Abby said briskly, but he saw the worry in her eyes and overheard her snapping something about _infections_ to Jackson.  “Bellamy, I need you to hang on, okay? I think it hit your kidney, but I can help you.  Just hang on.”  Her hand cupped his cheek, gentle and maternal.  It felt nice, and he was grateful that she was here for him at the end.  He didn’t want to die but if he had to, at least he wasn’t alone.  She said something else— something about giving him something for the pain— and he tried to tell her not to bother.  She should save that for someone who needed it; someone who had a chance.

But before he could, the darkness fell.

**

Hell was cold.  

That was the first thing he thought when he opened his eyes and found his mother standing above him.  He was cold to his very bones, freezing like the nights when they turned the life support heating coils down to save power.  Everything was dark except for her. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out, and his mother’s face tightened.

“I’m sure you are,” she replied, and then she faded, blurring into nothingness.  Water dripped onto his forehead and he searched for the source, but all he could see was the dark.

Lincoln was next.  “I’m sorry,” he said again, and the older man just shook his head sadly.  More water fell, a steady _drip drip_ on his cheeks.

Bellamy knew who would be last before she appeared.  “I shouldn’t have left,” he told Gina, reaching out for her.  He felt something soft under his fingertips but just as he did water trickled across the back of his hand and Gina moved away, just out of reach.

“It should have been you,” she said, and he took a step towards her but she must have moved too, his fingers grasping at air.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, even though it wasn’t enough; it would never be enough.

“I wish you died,” Gina said in a cold voice.  This version of Gina was a stranger to him— no giggles, no soft smile, no dimples, no gentle teasing.  That was what he loved about her so that was what he destroyed.

“You’ve gotten your wish,” he mumbled, and something touched the back his hand, a light pressure and then nothing more.  He looked, searching for the source, but hell was black and cold and empty.  Just him and his demons, the way he always knew it would be.

The next time he opened his eyes he saw Clarke, with red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks.   _You aren’t supposed to be here,_ he wanted to scream. _Not you, never you.  They need you like they never needed me._  He should have known it was all for naught.  After all, everything he’d done on the ground had turned to ashes in his hands— it made sense that she would too, even if that was the last thing he wanted.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, and he wondered if this was his punishment— always apologizing, never receiving absolution.

But then she laughed.

Just a short, surprised burst of air, more gasp than giggle, and then the water started falling on his hand again.  “You’re awake,” she whispered, her tears dripping on his wrist.  She kissed his hand and then his forehead and then his cheeks, murmuring _you’re awake you’re awake you’re going to be okay,_ and suddenly he realized he wasn’t cold anymore.  He was warm, lying in a bed piled high with blankets. A dim light shone behind Clarke, lighting her hair up like a halo.

For one heart stopping second he wondered if there had been a mistake, that he was in heaven now, but then pain lanced through his lower back and he realized that he was wrong on both counts: he was _alive_.

His hand felt like lead, but he used what strength he had to lift it and brush a tear from Clarke’s cheek.

 


	44. The Winter Soldiers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @mego42 requested “If you go anywhere near them, you’ll have to deal with me!” but when I was writing this I thought the prompt was actually “If you want them you’ll have to go through me” and by the time I realized my mistake it was too late.
> 
> Also inspired by these amazing manips by @fadingtales (see my tumblr for the link).

Clarke snatched her shield from the air and snapped it back into place on her forearm.  Behind her Bellamy was holding back a struggling Octavia, desperately repeating her signal code, and in front of them stood three dozen of A.R.K’s finest commandos.  “Stand down, Captain,” someone called from a bullhorn.  “We don’t want to hurt anyone; we just want to bring them in.” **  
**

“If you want them you’ll have to go through me,” she yelled back.  Octavia suddenly stopped struggling as Bellamy found the right combination of words and he laid her down gently before taking his place to Clarke’s left.

Three years ago, Clarke woke up to a world she didn’t recognize.  The war was over— they won— but nothing made sense.  Some things were better; it was no longer unusual for a woman to be a soldier and women like her and Lexa didn’t have to hide their love, but everything and everyone she knew was gone.  Lexa was all that was left of her old life, and even she was gone now.  At least they got to say goodbye in the end, but that was little comfort.

Clarke never got to say goodbye to the Blake siblings, and she never thought she would have the chance.  As members of The Delinquents– the newsreels named them that, much to everyone’s chagrin—  the Blakes had never been far from their Cap’s side.  Octavia’s deadly sweet smile was a perfect distraction for a bored Nazi guard and her accuracy with a sniper rifle was even deadlier.  Bellamy was less subtle, throwing aside their careful plans and bulling into their enemies without hesitation.  But the last time Clarke saw them, the mission hadn’t even begun.  One minute they were preparing to parachute behind enemy lines and the next the door to their plane was ripped off by one of the elite Mountain Men units.

Like Clarke, the Mountain Men had taken the super soldier serum before the Commander died.  But while they had her strength, their version of the serum had been corrupted and it left them empty, brutal monsters.  That made them easy to kill but hard to fight, as their single minded obsession was to destroy Captain America and everything she stood for.

The Mountain Men jumped down from their plane to hers, some slipping off the side and falling down thousands of feet down to the icy Atlantic while others swarmed through the door.  The Delinquents were struggling against sudden change in pressure while Clarke did her best to fight the Mountain Men off, but Octavia lost her grip on the rigging and flew towards the gaping hole with a shriek.

Bellamy lunged and caught her by her wrist, but he was just one person fighting nature and beast at the same time.  A Mountain Man slammed his head into the side of the plane and then Bellamy and Octavia were hurtling through the air.  Clarke just managed to grab his arm when Emerson grabbed her by the neck and started squeezing.

Clarke was never sure if she lost her grip or if Bellamy let go, but one second his hand was warm around hers and the next there was nothing there but air.  They fought off the Mountain Men and landed the plane, but they never found any trace of Bellamy or Octavia again.  Clarke laid flowers on their empty tombs whenever she could until the day she walked into the Mountain to end the war for good and brought it down on everyone inside— herself included.

She thought she would die then, but the combination of the glacier and the uncorrupted serum kept her alive.  Clarke had just gotten used to the idea of living in a world without anyone she loved when a pair of assassins tried to take out Kane.  Clarke chased them through the halls of A.R.K., trying to shake the thought that the woman’s shape seemed familiar.  The man was too far ahead, his silver arm glinting as they ran, but when Clarke hurled her shield and he spun to send it ricocheting back to her it was like a bullet to the heart.  She could never, ever forget that face.  It was a face she had said goodbye to half a century ago, alive but chillingly blank.

It had taken another year to track down the Winter Soldiers, since most official government documents claimed they were a myth.  No assassins— not even a team— could be that good, that invisible, and that long-lived.  But Clarke didn’t become Captain America by taking no for an answer.  She resigned her position with A.R.K. and began to hunt for the Winter Soldiers on her own.

After months of analyzing assassinations and mysterious deaths, she took a guess as to their next mission and for the first time in almost fifty years, Clarke caught a break. They went after her together in the Turkish envoy’s office, tossing her into walls and breaking furniture across her body in terrifying unison.   Clarke managed to knock Octavia out but Bellamy had her on the ropes when she started pleading.   _Please remember me, you have to, please Bellamy please,_ she begged.   _What about that time a Nazi had a gun to my head and you jumped down on him from a tree?  You have to remember that, you have to, please, you’re all I have left._

Bellamy wound his metal arm back for a swing and paused, recognition flickering in his eyes.  But after that came fear and after that guilt, and then he was throwing Octavia over his shoulder and running.  Clarke chased him through the streets of Athens but he pulled away and she thought she had lost them both for a second time.

Until the bombing.  The moment she saw Octavia’s face appear on an A.R.K bulletin, she knew they were innocent and she knew how to find them, so find them she did.  They wasted precious time arguing, with Bellamy yelling that they were too dangerous to be around anyone they loved and Clarke shouting back that she didn’t care— she needed them, she needed  _him_ back.  An A.R.K. squad arrived just moments later, and in the confusion one of agents managed to set off Octavia’s signal code, which meant they had to fight her and the A.R.K. squad at the same time.

Bellamy was breathing heavily at her side across the broad boulevard from the rest of the commandos.  “Stand down, Captain,” the bullhorn ordered again.  “Stand down, or you will be considered hostile.”

“Then consider me hostile,” she called.  She glanced at Bellamy out of the corner of her eye and saw him nod.  “Together?”

His hands clenched and his shoulders rippled, and the look he gave her was sad and defiant at once.  “Together.”


	45. Ironwoman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @alienor-woods requested ice mechanic and "it's a shame no one asked your opinion."

“Goddammit,” Raven swore and threw the fusion coil across her lab.  It bounced off the pile of busted suits and nearly hit Roan in the forehead when he walked through the door. **  
**

“I’m betting that was expensive,” her assistant said mildly, dodging the projectile with an easy grace.

“Everything in here is expensive,” she grumbled.  She picked up a new fusion coil and reached for her soldering iron.  Ever since taking down A.L.I.E. she had been trying to improve her suits and rid them of the vulnerabilities that stupid AI had managed to exploit, but she kept coming up with the same damn problems.  So now she was starting from scratch, hoping that an entirely new suit with a different processing core and completely redone wiring schematics would work.  “What do you want?” she asked Roan, who was waiting with an exaggeratedly patient look on his face.

“I have information on how your company is doing, if you care.”

“Let me guess: I’m still rich.”

“That’s correct, although parts for fifteen brand new mechanical suits have made you slightly less so.  But Research and Development got a new DoD project— not weapons, just cyber security—” he said when her head snapped up, ready to protest, “and you have a board meeting tomorrow about acquiring Green Systems Inc.”

“And that is…”

“A clean energy company that you recently decided to buy.”

“I did?”

“No, I did.  But you’ll approve of them, I promise.  There’s a precis on the company uploaded to F.I.N.N.,” Roan said.  He tapped the countertop with his finger.  “You also have a charity gala tonight.  Your dress is upstairs and the driver will arrive at 6pm.”

“You coming with me?”  she asked, and snuck a look at him out of the corner of her eye.

“If my presence is needed.”

She looked up and cocked her head.  “What if it’s just wanted?”

“Then I’ll be there,” he said with the faintest of smiles.  “And for the record, some of us might have hoped that the problems with A.L.I.E. would have dissuaded you from putting yourself in harm’s way quite so often.”

“Then it’s a real shame no one asked your opinion,” she snarked, but the look in his eye— worried, soft, and something almost like concern— made her swallow back the rest of her retort.  “But thanks,” she said, and his answering smile kept her unable to focus on anything else until long after he had left her lab.

 


	46. The Spelling Bee (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two to The Spelling Bee (Chapter 40). From a request for more from @lydiamartenism and an anon who wanted "I'm flirting with you" and bellarke.

“To never being able to pay off our loans!” Miller yelled, and the rest of the law school crowd raised their glasses and cheered.  After everything— three years of school, two horrid months of studying, followed by six more equally horrid weeks of waiting— they were finally done.  They had officially passed the bar and the next phase of their life was about to begin. Bellamy draped his arm over her shoulders and drained his beer, his adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow.  He grinned at her and she grinned back before she took a sip of her gin and tonic.  Once they had gotten over hating each other— which only took too many drinks and a spelling bee in this very bar— Clarke and Bellamy had become friends. **  
**

They had leaned on each other for the past five months, seeing each other through meltdowns of all varieties.  One after the first month of bar studying where Clarke decided there was no point, she was definitely going to fail and ended up drinking too much and then passing out on his couch, one two weeks later when Bellamy decided there was no point, he was definitely going to fail and then spent the night drunk on _her_ couch, and then one the night after the final day of testing wherein they drowned their we-definitely-failed sorrows in too much tequila and spent the night shivering on Raven and Gina’s bathroom floor, trading off puking and whining that Gina and Raven were entirely too unsympathetic to their plight.  It was odd how easily they transitioned from enemies to friends, but then again it wasn’t strange at all, because it had all been there before.  Now it was just rearranged into an order that made sense.

She rested her head against his shoulder before turning back to their high table.  “I’ve got my first trial in two weeks,” she observed, and Bellamy set his beer bottle down.  He poked at a block in their jenga tower, his hands deft and sure.

“You ready?”

“Honestly, no.”  She took her turn and removed a center block in the bottom third before placing it delicately on top.  “You?”

“Nothing scheduled yet but now that I’ve passed Kane wants me to start stepping up my caseload so it won’t be long.”  Bellamy slid a block from the left hand side, leaving it precariously teetering on one piece.  

Clarke frowned and surveyed the tower until Bellamy rolled his eyes.  “I’m not fucking losing to you,” she grumbled.  She picked her block and slowly eased it out, waiting until the tower stopped wobbling to place it on top.

But all her efforts were for nothing and the tower came crashing down.  Bellamy laughed her pout.  “Chin up, princess,” he teased, and tapped her jaw with his finger.  She batted it away, and when his hand grabbed hers suddenly they were in a half-arm wrestling, half-slap fight, laughing and shoving each other.

“Would you stop it?  What are you doing?” Clarke protested when he tickled her side, although her breathless laughter somewhat undermined her message.

“Flirting with you,” Bellamy replied without missing a beat.

Clarke stopped with her right hand still tangled with his and her left hand trying to shove him away.  “What?”  She could not have heard him right.

Doubt flickered across his face.  “I mean, I thought— oh shit, I didn’t mean to—” he stammered.

Clarke had never seen Bellamy at a loss for words— ever.  It was quite possibly the cutest thing she had ever seen, and the moment she realized that she also realized that she had heard him correctly.  She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. ““It’s about damn time.”

 


	47. Of Marriages and Shipping Agents

Clarke squinted at the numbers in the ledger and rubbed at her eyes.  Her neck ached and she should probably light another lamp because dusk was falling fast but that would involve ringing for a servant and Clarke was loathe to do that.  Her husband had an unusual relationship with his servants, in that he was profoundly uncomfortable whenever they did anything that resembled _serving_.  Clarke was of the opinion that so long as you paid them and treated them well, there was nothing wrong with asking a servant to do their job.  But after three months of marriage— if you could call it that— she had gotten into the habit of doing things on her own. **  
**

This was not the life she ever thought she would be living, but when her father died and her grandfather followed not six months later, she and her mother were left destitute.  Her father’s cousin and his wife turned them out of the only home Clarke had ever known, and if it weren’t for her mother’s chancing upon her old friend Aurora Blake on a street corner in London they very well may have ended in the poorhouse.

Instead, Clarke wound up married to Aurora’s son because no woman of good breeding would marry a _shopkeeper_ unless her straits were very dire indeed.  Bellamy agreed to keep her mother’s townhouse in Mayfair and Clarke provided his family with the social connections that had been thus far out of their reach.  He seemed charming enough so Clarke consented, because when faced with the poorhouse or a less-than-ideal marriage, only a fool would choose the former.

Although now, Clarke felt much the fool for her decision.  Bellamy was grumpy and ill-tempered, working all hours at the store he ran in Knightsbridge and coming home only to sleep.  Clarke had never known someone who worked— her father was a farmer, to be sure, but the sort of gentleman farmer who had tenants and an agent— and part of her wondered if he was trying to avoid her.  His mother and sister lived in the home next door and Bellamy seemed to resent her for taking him away from them.

In fact, he seemed to resent almost anything she did.  He would likely be furious when he came home and found her working on his books, but the rain had been falling all day and Clarke was going to go mad if she didn’t do _something_.  She had always had a head for figures and she had overheard Bellamy grumbling to Octavia that his books were off out and he didn’t have the time to sort it himself.

So in a fit of mulishness this afternoon she had marched to his library and sat down to work.  It wasn’t difficult— just sums and figures— but Bellamy had several different suppliers and at first she was just as stumped as he was.  But a niggling suspicion in her mind had her turn to one agent’s books in particular and now she was certain she had cracked it.  

Clarke was double checking her figures to be sure when Bellamy walked in, his hat and coat soaked from the rain.  “You should have rung for Miller to hang that up for you,” she fussed unnecessarily when he stopped mid-stride.  He was going to be cross so she might as well be cross with him first— it was easier that way.

“Miller’s busy,” Bellamy snapped.  “And what are you doing in here?”

“Working,” Clarke said and crossed her arms.  Unbidden, his eyes dipped down just slightly before rising to meet her gaze.

“Oh, the princess is working now, is she?”

As always, a red haze of rage descended across her line of vision.  No matter what she did, he would always hold her birth against her.  “I’m not going to apologize for my father’s title.  Not anymore.  Not when it’s the only reason you married me,” she snarled.

“And you only married me for my money, so I guess we’re even.”  His dark eyes flashed and he looked down at his ledgers.  “Was that what you were doing?  Trying to make sure I won’t go broke?”

“Well if you do you’ll only have yourself to blame.  By the way, Murphy’s cheating you.  That’s why the books aren’t coming out right.”  Clarke pushed past him towards the hallway.  Her skirts brushed against his leg and his hand shot out to grab her forearm.  

The beaded maroon silk of her dress crinkled under his palm, the first time they had touched since they shared a dry, dutiful peck at the alter.  “What?” Bellamy asked, and she was so stunned by his sudden closeness she forgot to be angry.

“Murphy.  The cotton agent.”

“I know who Murphy is,” he said, and there was a touch of humor around his mouth.  “He’s cheating me?”

His hand was still encircling her wrist, the heat of it seeping through her clothes to burn into her skin.  Clarke heaved a sigh, more for effect than anything else.  “Every shipment he’s overcharging you.  Not enough for anyone to notice at the docks, but over time it’s added up to quite a bit.  I’d imagine he has himself a nice little nest egg by now, thanks to you,” she said, and Bellamy finally let her arm go.  Oddly enough, she didn’t feel relieved when he stepped back— more disappointed than anything else, but that was ridiculous.

He looked at his desk and then back to her.  “Thank you,” he said, and it seemed sincere.

“You’re welcome,” she said, and if a blush rose to her cheeks just then it was merely a coincidence and nothing more.


	48. Amendment Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @skycourt requested "You can't be here now" and bellarke.

“To Amendment Eighteen!” Cage Wallace said, and the rest of the partygoers raised their glasses and cheered.  In the five years since the passage of Prohibition, Cage had gone from a man with the shadow of war profiteering hanging over his family name to the most notorious criminal of the decade.  The Mountain Men controlled every drop of liquor in the entire state but no one, not the police and not the G-men, could connect him to it because Cage never did the dirty work himself.  

That was why he had men like Bellamy.

He started as a lookout, standing on the dunes with an unlit cigarette and a book of matches that he would strike should someone come wandering their way.  The money was good and the job was easy, and before he knew it Bellamy had become one of the men unloading bottles from a boat down by the shore instead.  Eventually Cage took an interest in him and brought Bellamy into his inner circle as a bodyguard, trusting him to shadow his every move and make sure no one— not the government and not any of of the rival families— ever got close.

Bellamy shifted from foot to foot and watched Cage flirt with a dark haired girl, whispering in her ear to be heard under the clangor of the band.  As usual, Mrs. Wallace had not yet descended from her gilded cage.  She rarely came to Cage’s parties and when she did she arrived late and left early, leaving her husband to his liquor and women.  It was a cold marriage, brought about by desperation and looming poverty on her part and a desire for a respectable society wife on his.  Bellamy caught Gustus’ eye and nodded before he melted back into the shadows, winding through the bustling kitchen and dodging servers with trays of Cage’s champagne as he made his way to the servant’s staircase.

The second floor of Cage’s mansion was quiet as a tomb.  Dark red carpet the carved wood walls drank in the sound, electricity buzzing faintly from the sconces.  Bellamy stopped at the third door on the right and looked around before slipping inside.

Mrs. Wallace was sitting at her vanity, diamonds dripping from her ears and shining from her fingers.  The rest of Cage’s men called her the Ice Princess because she was always cold and glittering, but to Bellamy she was just Clarke.  It was a name that was hard and cold and warm and gentle all at once, a name meant to be whispered like a prayer.

Her eyes found his in the mirror and she jumped to her feet, knocking over her padded stool in the process. “Are you insane?” she hissed.  “You can’t be here now.”

“He’s busy.  We’re fine,” Bellamy said and then it was all over.  He crashed into her and her lips sought out his, greedy and desperate.  She tasted waxy at first from her lipstick, but once their tongues met he found her again, the sweetness underneath the armor she wore.  He curled his hand around the nape of her neck, her shorn hair tickling his thumb.  She had it slicked down in the way most daring women wore their hair now and her earrings clinked softly when she tipped her head to the side to give him access to her neck.

They never had enough time.  More than anything Bellamy wanted to slow down; he wanted to take his time, spend hours exploring every inch of her soft body.  But when you’re fucking the wife of notorious crime lord _time_ is not a luxury you get to have.  She shoved him down on her four poster bed and fucked him hard and fast and furious, and if he sat up and caught her moans with his mouth as they came that was the only space for tenderness, because there was a man downstairs who would kill them both if he knew.

Bellamy straightened his suit and Clarke wiped the smeared lipstick from her face, and when he took one last look at her before he left he committed the image to memory.  Her ivory skin was pink and flushed, her lips swollen, and she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.  He wondered if she would kiss him or curse him when she found out.

Because after tonight, Bellamy’s job was done.  

He would lead his men into the party and bring the Mountain down once and for all and Clarke would discover that he wasn’t just a poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks.  He was a card carrying G-man, and he was about to turn her world to rubble.

 

 


	49. Ironwoman (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filling a prompt request from @queenofchildren for ice mechanic and “How long have you been standing there?” and my September submission to the Icemechanicfanfic fanwork challenge.

Raven held her hands out, palms down, to slow her descent towards the helipad.  There was a light shining from the first floor, which meant Roan was probably waiting for her to fill her in on whatever she had missed by ducking out of the gala early.  It wasn’t that she didn’t care— she did, and she wrote the enormous checks to prove it— it was that she never felt comfortable at those things.  They were for people like Roan, who had grown up with money and didn’t see anything strange about spending $30,000 to raise $300,000.  But no matter how much money she made, there was still a part of her that was the girl from an apartment with bars on the window and a mouse problem the building manager refused to fix.  So when A.R.K. had called in about an arms shipment that had slipped off of their radar, Raven had jumped at the chance to leave the benefit early because really, Roan was better at that sort of thing than she was.

Her feet touched down and she initiated the retraction sequence with a quiet word to F.I.N.N.  Her suit folded away, piece by piece, until all that was left was her original mechanical brace.  She grabbed her tablet as she passed through the lab in nothing but her sports bra and underwear and snagged the t-shirt she’d left in there earlier.  Raven pulled it over her head, let it fall down to her hips, and padded down the staircase.  Her arrest of the arms dealers was already making news, although A.R.K. was claiming most of the credit.  She flipped through the story and walked through her living room towards the bedroom.

Roan was standing at her closet, gently hanging up the blood-red dress she had worn to the gala.  The day he had shown up in her office asking to be her personal assistant she had assumed it was either a prank or some sort of weird corporate espionage, because why else would the heir to an oil fortune want to work as personal executive assistant to an engineer-slash-CEO?  But he swore he was honestly interested in the job— and had stopped speaking to his mother years ago— so she gave him a shot.  And really, they worked very well together.  Roan handled all the shit she either loathed or didn’t have time to do, and that left her with more time in the lab and in the air with her suit.  

Raven stopped in the doorway and watched him place her heels in the closet.  She’d left her clothes in a puddle in a back room at the gala, sending him a message through F.I.N.N. to let him know where she had gone, but she had assumed he would send someone else back with her things.  He started moving about the bedroom, straightening a stack of magazines here, turning on a light there, until he noticed her. “How long have you been standing there?” he asked.

“You know, I literally pay someone to clean up after me,” she said with a smile.  “And I just got back.”

His eyes swept over her in a now-familiar scan for injuries.  “I know.  I’m the person you pay to do that.  You got it sorted it out?”

“With hardly a scratch to the suit and no, I mean I pay a housekeeper to make my bed.  I pay you to attend galas I don’t want to go to.  Did I miss anything?”

“Just more drinks and dancing.  Nothing you’d like.”

“Hey, I like drinks and dancing,” she protested.

He arched an eyebrow.  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said lightly and she felt a blush start crawling up her neck.

Raven stepped aside to let him out of her bedroom, catching a faint whiff of his cologne when he brushed past.  He wore it every day and at some point in the past two years she had started associating it with home, which was probably not a great idea in the grand scheme of things.  “Thanks,” she said, once he was a safe distance away.

“Of course.  Oh, I forgot to mention— you agreed to sponsor this benefit next year.”

“I did?”

“You did.”

“Will there be drinks and dancing?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“If you’d like,” he said, and held her gaze just a beat too long.

“I would,” she said, and it seemed like his eyes darted to her bare legs, but it happened so quickly she wasn’t sure.

“Then there will be drinks and dancing.  Will you be needing anything else?”

“No, go home,” she said, that stupid blush now staining her cheeks.

“Then good night.  And Raven?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you made it back safely.”


	50. Adventures with Milton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @queenofchildren asked for bellarke + "Call me now; it's urgent." Special thanks to @reblogginhood for inspiring some of the details.

“Bellamy, it’s Clarke. Call me as soon as you get this.  It’s urgent.”  Clarke hung up and drummed her fingers on her countertop, glaring at the offending envelope.  Just one week ago she had been a little anxious about joining Miller and Monty’s joint bachelor party in Vegas because she didn’t always get along with Bellamy.  Or more accurately, they fought all the fucking time, but Monty asked her to come and she didn’t want to be a dick, so she sucked it up and agreed to go.  But now not only did she have his number but his contact had a stupid selfie of the two of them grinning like maniacs. **  
**

And really, the trip was mostly fun.  Bellamy shared her habit of fussing over the group, and since dealing with their friends while drunk was like herding cats it was nice to have someone to help.  The first few days went off without a hitch, but on the last full day in Vegas their friends held an intervention.  Apparently, “being responsible so no one loses all their money and/or accidentally pisses off the mafia” made them ”killjoys” who were “incapable of being spontaneous.”

And, well, Clarke never backed down from a challenge and neither did Bellamy.  So when Bellamy whispered in her ear to trust him before he dropped to one knee in front of the Bellagio Fountain and asked her to marry him she caught the gleam in his eye and said _yes, of course_ with feigned trembling joy.

The rest of the crowd cheered while their friends exchanged looks.  “Hilarious,” Miller said after Bellamy had scooped her into a hug.

“Sorry to steal your thunder, man,” Bellamy said and wrapped his hand securely around hers.  “But you really shouldn’t be surprised.”

Before Clarke was able to ponder what _that_ meant, Bellamy was towing her towards a cab while their friends looked utterly bewildered.  Once the cab was headed to the County Clerk’s office, Bellamy turned to her.  “We can file for a marriage license, and then head to a chapel,” he started, and Clarke held up her hand.

“Wait wait wait— you want to go _through_ with this?”

“No, I want them to _think_ we went through with it.  We file for a license, go to one of those chapels with Elvis or some shit like that, and then we just…don’t sign the license.  We let them think we’ve gone off the deep end until we get home.”

Clarke grinned and he grinned back.  “I’m in,” she said.

Getting a marriage license was easy, and finding a wedding chapel was even easier.  There was a line of limos waiting outside the county building and all they had to do was pick one. The driver was sketchy and the chapel itself looked like an abandoned garage with astroturf and some very sad, dusty curtains around the altar.  “Hello?” Bellamy called, because bunker-esque room seemed to be completely deserted.

“If we get murdered here I’m killing you,” she muttered.

Bellamy headed towards an alcove off to the left and pulled back a beaded curtain.  A guy about their age with a long, sharp nose hit pause on his laptop and Al Pacino froze with a machine gun in his hand.  “You need something?” the _Scarface_ aficionado asked.

“We’re…here about a wedding?” Clarke replied.

The guy shrugged.  “Okay.  Just you two?  Because you need two witnesses and Milton doesn’t count.”

“Milton?” they asked in unison, just as a capuchin monkey sprang onto the desk.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Bellamy muttered under his breath and Clarke fought a smile.  

“Our friends are on their way.  What do we need to do?” she asked.

He gave her a critical look.  “You’re getting married in your jeans?  You seem kinda sober for that.”

“Do you want us to get married here or not?” Bellamy snapped.

He shrugged again.  “It’s a hundred dollars.  You got the license?”  Clarke pulled it from her purse and slapped down her credit card.  “Great, I’m Murphy, and I’ll be your officiant.”

“Can’t we have Milton instead?” Bellamy grumbled, but Murphy either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

“Raven said they’re grabbing supplies but they’ll be here in an hour,” Clarke said.  Murphy printed out the receipt and she scribbled her name.

“So we have to spend an hour with this guy?”

Murphy hit _play_ on his laptop and Al Pacino started yelling again, completely unperturbed by their discussion.  “I saw a liquor store about a block away,” Clarke said.  “And he’s right— we’re entirely too sober for this.”

So that was how their friends came to find them sitting on the stoop in front of the wedding bunker, trading pulls from a whiskey bottle and watching the sunset over the Strip.  “I assume I’m the maid of honor,” Raven said as their friends spilled from the car.

“Damn straight,” Clarke hiccuped.  She stumbled a bit as she tried to stand and Bellamy caught her, his hands warm and strong around her waist.  “Chapel’s this way!” she crowed and they left the searing desert heat for the icy air conditioning of the world’s most depressing wedding venue.

Bellamy drunkenly insisted he couldn’t see her before the wedding— the fact that they had just been hanging out did not matter, apparently— so she and Raven ended up huddled in Murphy’s alcove while everyone else set up the altar.

A chittering noise made Raven jump.  “What the fuck?” she yelped, and Milton crawled up her chair.

“That’s Milton,” Clarke explained and twisted her arms to try and zip up the dress Raven had bought her.  “Can you help with this? I can’t get it.”  

Raven edged away from Milton and drew the zipper up to the nape of Clarke’s neck.

“How do I look?” Clarke asked, spinning around and smoothing down the white fabric.  “I think it might be tight?”

“Of course it’s tight.   I’m the only other person with tits on this trip so it’s not like I could make Miller try it on and see if it would fit, so I had to guess on your size. But you look hot.  A little trashy, but I figured that was the vibe you’re going for.”

Clarke laughed and wished she could see herself in a mirror.  The dress was skintight and stopped just a few inches below the swell of her ass, and when Raven handed over the red heels Clarke knew her legs would look amazing.  She fluffed her hair a little and smiled.  “Ready?”

Raven sobered.  “I am.  But— Clarke, a week ago you hated Bellamy.  And now you’re getting _married_.  If this is some sort of, I don’t know…overreaction to us telling you guys to lighten up, you really don’t have to take it this far.  You guys win.”

“Whatever, you’re the one who told me to bang him and get it out of my system.”

“Yeah.   _Bang_ him, not marry him.”

“I’m doing this.  You okay with it?”

Raven gave her one last searching look and then nodded.  “Monty’s got the flowers, so he’ll give you those at the end of the aisle.  And here,” she said, and placed a small birdcage veil on the crown of Clarke’s head.  “Let’s get you married.”

The wedding was surprisingly thoughtful.  Murphy read a John Donne poem, and Miller had bought two rings from a pawn shop— Clarke’s was too big so she switched it to her middle finger, and she distinctly remembered taking a photo flipping Monty and Raven off, and Bellamy’s was inscribed _with love, Bubba,_ which made Clarke laugh so hard Murphy clucked his tongue and asked if she needed some water.  When he announced that Bellamy could kiss the bride, Bellamy surprised her by tenderly lifting her veil and kissing her with his hand cupping her jaw.

It was a nice kiss, as first kisses went.  Clarke pressed herself along his length and his other hand dropped to her waist, the kiss becoming deeper with each breath they took.  The rest of their friends applauding and whistling broke them apart, and then it was time for two more rounds of pulls from the whiskey bottle while Murphy went back to his lair with Milton.

The night turned into a bit of a slideshow after that.  Clarke remembered taking several dozen rounds of photos, and she remembered sending Raven and Miller over to sign the license while she and Bellamy posed for photos with Monty and Jasper.

She also remembered going with Bellamy to his room, because, as she’d breathed in his ear on the ride back to the hotel, they were _married_ after all.  She liked the feeling of his hands on her skin and she liked the way his eyes darkened when he first saw her in her wedding dress, and it seemed he felt the same.

On the flight Clarke and Bellamy had put up with their fair share of annulment jokes but she didn’t care.  They’d let their friends imagine that they had gone temporarily insane and they would tell them the truth in a week or two, but for the rest of the flight Clarke was glad she had his shoulder to lean her head on.  In fact, she’d spent the last week pondering calling him to see if he wanted to go on an _actual_ date, but now matters were a lot more complicated.

Because sitting in front of her was a copy of their marriage license, the envelope addressed in what she assumed was Murphy’s handwriting unless Milton was a more talented monkey than she realized.  There was the date, the officiant’s signature, and the Raven’s neat block lettering and Miller’s spiky cursive.

And there, in hasty, slightly drunken scribbles right next to each other, were their signatures.  Clarke didn’t remember it and she was pretty sure Bellamy didn’t either, but they’d somehow signed the damn thing.

They were married.

For real.


	51. Amendment Eighteen (Prequel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @theprincessclarkegriffin requested a prequel to Amendment Eighteen (chapter 48).

“Blake,” Cage signaled and Bellamy pushed himself off the wall behind Cage’s booth. “My wife isn’t feeling well.  See her home.”

Bellamy snuck a glance at Mrs. Wallace, but her face was a mask of studied indifference.  She often left the speakeasy early, pleading a headache or a long day, and Cage usually sent Bellamy to drive her home.  Bellamy didn’t mind, because the smoky haze and dull roar of the club made his head pound and he liked her company.  Mrs. Wallace was warm and kind on the drives back to their mansion, sometimes softly asking after Octavia— he had mentioned her once, when Mrs. Wallace asked if he had any family— but she rarely spoke about her own life.  With her he felt more like himself, more like Bellamy, the boy who grew up in the shadow of her family’s factory.  The town had mourned her father’s death and then tittered over her quick engagement to Cage, but the more time he spent with her the more he wondered how desperate she had been when she agreed to marry him.  Because Mrs. Wallace was so unlike her husband in every way; where Bellamy mostly wanted to punch Cage in the face, his wife inspired a very different feeling.

Nyko had the back alley door and nodded in acknowledgement when they emerged.  The car was three blocks away and they walked quietly through a light mist.  Bellamy offered her his coat— her dress bared her shoulders and stopped just above her knees— but she waved it away.  He paused and waited for a lone car to trundle past and then they stepped off the curb.  Mrs. Wallace stumbled and gave a sharp cry.  Bellamy turned and grabbed her by the elbow before she fell, and when she straightened he caught a whiff of her perfume.  It was soft and subtle and struck a chord somewhere deep inside him.  “You okay there, ma’am?” he asked, suddenly fighting to keep his voice neutral.

She stifled a snort.  “Please don’t call me ma’am,” she said.  “And yes, I’m all right.  Just my ankle.”  But when she took a step she cried out again and grabbed his arm.  “Maybe not,” she grumbled, and he wrapped his arm around her to help her hop across the street.  She balanced on one foot while he opened the door and sighed in relief as she sank into the backseat.  She was unusually quiet on the drive and Bellamy decided to leave her be.  It was odd, how easy it was to be quiet with her too– it felt comfortable in a way it probably shouldn’t.

Bellamy guided the car around the long drive and pulled to a stop.  “You can go around back like usual,” she said, but Bellamy got out anyway.

“You really think you can make it from the garage?” he asked.

“You make a good point,” Mrs. Wallace grinned ruefully.  He helped her to the door but she flatly refused to let him help her any further.  “Just go, I’m fine,” she said, and once she was safely inside he jogged back down the stairs.

Bellamy killed the engine and considered going home— it was a long walk on a damp night, but usually when Cage sent him home with the Mrs. that was the end of his duties for the day— but some instinct drove him to let himself in the back entrance.   _I’m just making sure she doesn’t need anything_ , he told himself, but his heart rate picked up anyway.

He found her sitting on the grand central staircase, pressing her fingers to her ankle.  “Where is everyone?” he asked and started up towards her.

“Oh, I sent them home before we went out tonight.  You should go too— the rain is only going to get worse, and it’s a long walk to your neighborhood.”

Part of him wondered how she knew where he lived, but that wasn’t why he’d come inside.  “Come on, let’s get you upstairs,” he said, and once more she took his arm and let him help her along.  Bellamy found himself fighting the urge to bury his nose in her hair or sweep her up in his arms, and when they reached her door he was half relieved, half sad.

He helped her into her bedroom, the one just about as far down the hall from Cage’s as it could be.  She settled gingerly onto her four poster bed and waved her hand again. “You’ve done enough— go, I’m quite all right.”

“Right after I get you some ice,” he replied, and then he was heading down the back stairs and chipping ice from the icebox.  He grabbed a towel from the kitchen and tied it around the ice, which had started to melt a little by the time he made it all the way back upstairs.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, but he shook his head and knelt down to press the ice to her ankle, which was now puffy and red.  She hissed and flinched away, so he fit his hand around the back of her calf to hold her leg steady.  Her skin was warm to the touch and when he risked a glance up at her she was smiling down sadly.  He had never really noticed how blue her eyes were before, or maybe it was just he’d never seen her look like this— open and vulnerable, but not weak.  “It’s been a long time since someone took care of me,” she whispered, and he had to look away. Her hand came down to take the knotted towel from him and he let go.  

He meant to move a safe distance back but instead he sat down next to her.  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wallace,” he said once he had control of his voice.

“Clarke,” she chided gently.

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” he repeated.  “I should— I should probably go,” he said. _Your husband would kill me for looking at you like this._

“I think that would be for the best,” she said, but he stayed where he was and she didn’t move either.  Her eyes dropped to his lips and he found himself staring at hers as well, full and soft and so, so close.

Bellamy didn’t understand how he could move without realizing it, but one moment he was sitting next to Clarke and the next he was kissing her, her hands tangling in his hair and her mouth opening under his.  He shifted and then she was pressed down into the thick, soft mattress and he was over her, feeling like his heart might burst if he had to leave, if someone interrupted them, if—

And then just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.  Bellamy pulled back when his brain caught up with his body, because if someone opened the door— if a servant came up, if Cage came home early— they would both be dead.  Cage was not a man to be trifled with, much less someone who would suffer his employee kissing his wife.  “We can’t,” he said, but his thumb was sweeping along her jaw anyway.

“You’re right; we can’t,” she said, and then they were kissing again because Bellamy had a death wish and so did she.  He ran his hands down her sides and her leg curled around his hip and god, he wanted her like he had never wanted anything or anyone before.

Eventually, he came to his senses again.  He had to peel himself from the bed, stepping on the ice in his haste, and Clarke looked just as broken as he felt.  “It’s too dangerous,” he said, but that was only the half of it.  It wasn’t just Cage— it was Pike and his single minded drive to bring down every bootlegger in the state.  Bellamy’s mission was to make Cage trust him, to gather intel on his operation— seducing Cage’s wife would only muddle things.

But this wasn’t seduction— it was something deeper and purer.  It was a need, like his heart somehow depended on her to keep beating, which was utterly ridiculous on the face of it but no less true.  “I don’t want you to get hurt,” Clarke said, pulling her dress down to cover her knees as she sat up.

There was so much more he wanted to say, but none of it mattered.  So he curled his hands into fists and nodded once and then he left without so much as a backward glance.

 _It was a mistake.  You’re allowed one mistake,_ he told himself, but deep down, he knew it was a lie.

It was so much more than that.


	52. Amendment Eighteen (The Conclusion)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @theprincessclarkegriffin and several others requested a conclusion to this universe and I just couldn't resist.

The station was a madhouse.  Pike and the chief had been shouting about jurisdiction for the past hour, ever since Bellamy and his men showed up with three carloads of bootleggers needing a place to stash them while the prosecutors finished their paperwork.  The local police resented the intrusion so Pike accused them of collusion, and that had been the last semi-civil moment.  Cage’s men were shouting— some for lawyers, some at Bellamy for betraying them, some just because they were pissed as hell— and then a hush swept through the room.  The agents and local police parted like a wave and there she stood, a thick fur coat threatening to slip off her shoulders.

“I’d like to see my husband, please,” Clarke said.  Her voice was quiet but steady and her eyes flashed dangerously.

Pike recovered first and Bellamy could only stand mutely to the side, unable to decide if he wanted her to look at him or not.  “This way, Mrs. Wallace,” Pike said, and as Clarke swept through the precinct her gaze slipped towards him and then darted away before he could decide if it was rage or loathing written on her face.  Her face was a mask, cold and composed, and she kept her shoulders straight as she approached Cage in his solitary holding cell.

Cage opened his mouth but Clarke didn’t let him speak.  “I just wanted to see you like this,” she said with a cruel smile and turned on her heels.

She strode from the precinct with her head held high, and slowly— very slowly— the silence grew back into a dull roar of arguments, chatter, and handcuffs clinking against iron bars.

The sun was already rising by the time Bellamy was able to leave the station.  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shuffled home, fighting against the urge to go back to Cage’s mansion.  Would she still be there?  Did she hate him?  Was there a future there, even with all the lies?  Bellamy had spent so long not letting himself think about _after_ that now that it had arrived he didn’t know what to expect.

Bellamy added a few sticks to the fire in his stove and set water to boil for some coffee, sitting close to the stove as it started to drive the early morning chill from the two room shack he called home.  Every time he closed his eyes he could see her face when she emerged onto the staircase as they burst into the mansion, guns drawn.  Clarke had gone pale the moment she saw him and in the confusion of the raid Miller was the one who reached her first.

The water had only begun to bubble and hiss when a knock sounded at his door.  Bellamy crossed to it in three strides, expecting it to be Pike with another assignment.

Instead it was Clarke, looking thunderous.

“How did you know where I live?” he asked, dumbfounded.

Clarke pushed past him and shrugged out of her fur.  She was still in the dress she’d been wearing the night before, the one she had on when he was inside of her and everything seemed right, if only for a heartbeat.  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she snapped.

Bellamy’s heart cracked in half.  “I was trying to keep you safe,” he said.

“Safe? By letting me stay with that monster?”

“I thought—”

“That’s right, you thought.  You didn’t ask me.  If you’d just _told_ me, I could have given you his books weeks ago.”

Bellamy started to respond and drew up short.  “You knew where he kept them?” he sputtered.

She tossed her head, her earrings winking in the light.  “I found them last month.  I wanted— I wanted to tell someone, but he never let me go anywhere alone.  And I thought you might— I didn’t know how you would react.”  She faltered a bit at the end, looking away.

“You didn’t trust me?” he asked, and his voice had gone hoarse with the pain of it.  He deserved her suspicion because after all, he hadn’t trusted her enough either.

“I didn’t want you to do something _stupid_ ,” Clarke retorted.  “It would have put you at risk and I didn’t want to lose you.”

Bellamy swallowed against the painful lump in his throat.  “I didn’t want to lose you either.”

And then she was in his arms and they were kissing, because that was how they were.  Words didn’t always come but touches were always perfect, always said what he wanted to say but couldn’t.  And after, with Clarke’s head on his shoulder, her lips nuzzling at his throat, he found the words anyway.

“I’m sorry I lied,” he whispered.  He ran his hand over her cropped hair and lit a cigarette that she plucked from his fingers.

“I’m sorry too,” she said, and her cheeks hollowed out as she took a drag.  “But it’s over now.  I can leave him.”

Bellamy looked down at her and Clarke handed back the cigarette. “He owns a summer home in Indiana by the lake.  If he’s convicted I can get a divorce there. I’ll lose all the property here, but...before, I thought I had to do this to save my family and now...well, now I know it’s not worth it."

Bellamy set the cigarette down in the ashtray near his bed and cupped her jaw with his hand.  “I can’t give you...well, anything.  This is it.  This is all I have, and—”

But Clarke cut him off with a kiss.  “All I want is you,” she murmured against his lips, and that was that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't smoke, kids.


	53. Admit It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @d3ndronica requested bellarke and "see, now, was that so bad?"

“See, now, was that so bad?” Clarke asked.  She tipped her head to the side and bit her lip, and Bellamy shook his head at her in mock frustration. **  
**

“My way was better,” he said, and his fingers flexed a little on her waist.

“Yeah, but look at how much fun they’re having,” she said, and nodded to their friends now crowding around them on the dance floor.  “And besides, admit it— you’re having fun.”

Bellamy pulled her close with a grin and she bumped against his chest.  “Maybe,” he admitted.  He dropped a kiss to the top of her head.  “But only if you admit my way was better.”

“Your way was better,” she said and let him slowly turn them about the dance floor.  Clarke hadn’t really wanted a big wedding either, but she did like the idea of a big party for all their friends and her mom was offering to foot the bill.  She took a deep breath, inhaling him, and smiled at the memory.  They’d actually gotten married that morning, at sunrise, on the beach.  The sky was pink and the water was blue, and when Bellamy smiled at her as she approached she wondered if she would ever be happier than that moment.

Lincoln performed the ceremony and Octavia, Raven, Abby, and Marcus were the only guests.  It was simple and perfect, and as long as Octavia kept her mouth shut no one would know that the ceremony Lincoln performed that evening was just for show.


	54. What Are You Afraid Of?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @thehundredtimesobsessed asked for ice mechanic and "what are you afraid of?" Officially set in the Admit It universe (chapter 53) but it is definitely not necessary to read that one first.

Roan leaned back against the wall and trailed his finger idly around the rim of his wine glass.  Out on the dance floor Clarke and her friends were jumping around, and even her brand new husband of a only few hours (or the entire day, since Octavia had told them all about the secret beachside ceremony that morning) seemed to be enjoying himself, and Bellamy was not a man who smiled easily or often. **  
**

He told himself he was watching them all, but really, his gaze kept flickering back to one person.  One woman, actually.  Raven was laughing, her smile radiant, and she threw her arm around Monty as the song came to an end.  Monty chuckled at whatever she said, but when the next song started, the tempo was much slower.  Monty found his way to Miller and Bellamy wrapped his arms around Clarke and started swaying.

Raven strode over to Roan’s table and stopped expectantly.  “Can I help you?” he asked, not even hiding the way he checked her out.

She smirked.  “You can.  You can dance with me, instead of sitting over here like some sort of weird recluse.”

“Maybe I just don’t dance,” he said.

“Clarke said you did.  In fact, she said you’re a great dancer,” Raven said, and he found himself echoing her mischievous grin.

“Did she, now.”

“She did.”  Raven tapped her foot under her long black dress.  “Well?  What are you afraid of?”  

She held out her hand and Roan took it, because he was not a man to back down from a challenge.


	55. Inside, Outside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @marycontrary82 asked for bellarke and "Before I do this, I need you to know I have always loved you."

It had started raining a few hours before midnight.  The fierce autumn storm split the sky with thunder and lightning, and the rain beat down mercilessly. **  
**

Inside, Clarke’s alarm blared.  The high pitched _beep beep beep_ momentarily drowned out the patter of rain and wind against the windows.  She groaned and threw her arm out blindly, slapping until it fell silent.

Bellamy shifted next to her and she automatically curled up against him.  “Why do I have this job?” she grumbled.

“Because one of us has to make enough money to pay the bills,” he replied sleepily.  

“How was Homecoming?” she asked.  She’d tried to stay awake until he got home but all she had was a hazy memory of him kissing her forehead and slipping underneath the covers.

“Loud.”

Clarke snorted and burrowed her nose into his neck.  Bellamy was warm, their bed was soft, and she would have given anything to just spend the day there, wrapped around each other.

But the hospital awaited, so with one last groan she wriggled away from him.  “Before I do this, I need you to know I always loved you,” she declared, and now it was Bellamy’s turn to snort.

“So dramatic,” he said, and rolled to his side.  “I’ll have dinner ready for you when you get home.”

Like he promised, Bellamy had a pot simmering on the stove when she came home, exhausted.  “How was the ER today?” he asked when she wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Loud,” she said against his chest, and felt his laugh rumble through him.  “Dinner smells good, though.”

Bellamy kissed the crown of her head and she melted deeper into him.  

Outside, the rain kept coming down.


	56. Of Marriages and Shipping Agents (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @trysomethingnew1 requested more to the Victorian AU, Of Marriages and Shipping Agents (chapter 47).

**  
**Clarke pulled the cord for Harper one more time, but a suspicion was already brewing in the corner of her mind.  Dinner with her mother had gone long and the pins in her coiffure were making her head pound, but it wasn’t like Harper to ignore a summons.  Clarke walked down the hall and rapped on Bellamy’s door before letting herself in. **  
**

Her husband was sitting in his bed, a ledger open in his lap.  He often did this, she’d learned, preferring to set the accounts straight each night before bed.  “Did you dismiss Harper early tonight?” Clarke asked when he looked up.

To his credit, Bellamy looked honestly apologetic.  “Her mother is ill and—  I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

“It’s quite all right,” she interjected.  “You’ll just have to help me with this,” she said as she motioned to her dress, and kept her tone light.  Ever since the moment with his ledgers— and Murphy’s subsequent sacking— things with them had begun to thaw.   

Or more accurately, things between them had begun to warm.

She didn’t hate him now.  In fact, she was rather fond of him, and she was beginning to think he was fond of her too.  She didn’t want to upset the delicate balance they had created, and while she wished he’d thought about just how difficult it was to get out of a dress with hundreds of buttons without assistance, she was also glad she was married to someone who cared so much about his servants.

Bellamy set the ledger down and climbed off his bed.  Clarke turned away from him and hoped he didn’t notice the blush rising from her cheeks.  She felt his fingers brush the coiled mass of hair at the nape of her neck and shook her head.  “Dress first, then hair,” she explained, and Bellamy cleared his throat in response.

Clarke had never realized just how many buttons her deep purple dress had until just now.  Bellamy worked quietly and the blush spread from her neck to her cheeks to her ears, because every brush of his fingers against the skin of her back made her want to jump out of her skin.  He was too close and not close enough, and by the time he had undone her dress to the middle of her back her nails had left little red crescents in her palms.

He plucked three pins from her hair before she couldn’t do it any longer.  She couldn’t stand that close to him and not touch him, couldn’t feel his breath tickle the hair on her neck without wanting him to crush her to him and kiss her until there was no space left between them.  “I can take it from here,” she said briskly, but when she turned to say goodbye the air left her lungs because he was looking at her the way she felt, dark and hungry.

But when he nodded and moved back, she realized he would never take the lead.  So instead Clarke stepped into his arms and kissed him, her hands linking behind his neck.  For a heartbeat his lips were frozen and then the ice cracked and fire took its place.

Because fire was the only way to describe what was between them now.  Even when he huffed out a laugh against her shoulder as they struggled to shed the layers between them, and even when she squealed in discomfort when her spine pressed down against the ledger instead of the feather mattress, her skin burned with need for him.  And he seemed to feel it too, his kisses deep and searching even when his hands were gentle.

Clarke felt almost scandalized after, despite his ring around her finger and his name surname appended to hers.  But when she propped her chin on his chest and he smiled down at her, she knew in her bones that no matter how they started, this was where they were meant to be.


	57. The Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @thetimetravelingjedi asked for "Just breathe-- look at me, and breathe," as did an anon. It's a bellarke/stranger things AU, with some mild Stranger Things spoilers and the same level of grossness as season one of Stranger Things.

Bellamy shook her hand off his arm.  “It’s not her, Clarke— I know it, okay?  It’s not her.  So whatever you’re here to tell me, don’t bother.  I know where she is, and it’s not— it’s not _there_.” **  
**

Bellamy spat that all at Clarke as she dragged him out of his small, shabby bungalow on the edge of the woods.  The hatchet was still in his left hand, a piece of plaster wedged across the tip.  Clarke had interrupted him as he hacked at the wall, yelling for Octavia even though her body was currently at the funeral home.

Or more accurately, what they had _said_ was her body.  Clarke and her deputies been searching for Octavia for three days while Bellamy grew ever more frantic and the call had only confirmed the growing pit of dread in her stomach. _The body of a young woman has been retrieved from the reservoir behind the Mount Weather dam,_  the state police had told her, and her heart had started to break.  It was the answer they all feared and dreaded, but now all she had were questions.

And then Bellamy had refused to ID the body.  “That’s not her,” he said flatly, and no amount of gentle understanding could persuade him otherwise.  He left the morgue with Clarke hot on his heels because she knew what disbelief in the face of grief felt like.  She’d spent weeks convinced that Lexa would walk back through their door and announce it had all been a silly misunderstanding, that she wasn’t the one killed in a hit-and-run even though Clarke had been standing right there when it happened.  But then weeks turned into months and eventually Clarke had to leave their apartment in Polis behind and move back to Arkadia because she couldn’t take one more day of looking at their front door with _hope_.

But Bellamy insisted he knew what he was talking about, and it wasn’t Octavia stretched out underneath the sheet on the metal table in the cold, grey room that constituted the city morgue.  And something inside of Clarke understood that it wasn’t grief at play here because Bellamy was not someone for magical thinking.  He was a realist to his core, no matter what.  It was what had led him to insist that their one night together six years ago was just that— one night and nothing more— because Clarke was going back to college in the fall and he was still working second shift at the gas station. _There’s no future here,_ he’d said sadly, so Clarke had swallowed her pride and left him behind.  He never flinched from the truth so the longer Bellamy insisted that Octavia was alive, the more Clarke started to believe him.

So last night she broke into the morgue to see for herself.  Right away she could tell something was off, because Octavia’s body wasn’t cold.  She wasn’t warm either; she was the same temperature as a barbie doll left on a kitchen table, neither hot nor cold but somewhere in between.  And when Clarke pulled down the sheet there was no long, y-shaped incision despite the fact that the state police had sent her a copy of the autopsy report, complete with details of her last meal (Macaroni and cheese and hot dogs, a detail so heartbreakingly young it had made Clarke want to weep).  Clarke’s stomach started churning when she picked up a scalpel but the resistance of Octavia’s skin was all wrong— it was too tough, too plasticky to be real.

And inside, all she found was cotton.

Bellamy sank down on a fallen log, the October wind ruffling his hair.  “I know how it sounds, Clarke.  I know.  But I’m not crazy.  Octavia’s not dead.  She can’t be— she’s talking to me, okay?  She’s in danger and I have to— I can’t—”  With a quiet thump the hatchet fell from his hands and he buried his face in them, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Clarke crouched down in front of him and grabbed his hand, trapping the chapped, dry knuckles between her palms.  “Breathe, Bellamy.  Look at me and just breathe, okay?”

Agony was etched across his face when he finally brought his eyes up to meet hers.  “You have to believe me,” he pleaded, and Clarke gave him a sad, soft smile.

“I do.”  His eyebrows shot up, disbelief now warring with a hope that was almost painful for her to see.  “But what we’re dealing with here is bigger than either of us— we have to be careful, but I think I know how we can find her.”

“We?” he asked.

Clarke nodded, her brain already running through ways to infiltrate the Mount Weather National Laboratory.  “We.  We’ll get her, Bellamy.  We will. Together.”

“Together,” he echoed. A tiny smile flickered across his lips and a spark of hope took root in her chest.  It wouldn’t be easy— would be nearly impossible— but it was the only chance they’d have.  

At least they wouldn’t be alone.


	58. Giving All The Fucks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @tachypneic requested a Crazy Ex Girlfriend bellarke au, and @whereevershegoes asked for bellarke and "Zero fucks given. Next please." For the record, I ADORE Crazy Ex Girlfriend and while Bellamy is definitely Greg (asshole who is secretly a softie) nobody else fit too well because even Josh is too good to be Finn. But I made it work the best I could.

Bellamy had this…thing. **  
**

He hated to admit it, and in fact when Miller first pointed it out to him, he denied it entirely.

But it was possible— or maybe even probable— that he was right.

Because Bellamy had a thing for women who didn’t want him back.

Like the woman sitting across the bar from him, her phone out next to the shot he’d just poured her.  Clarke had been pretending she wasn’t waiting for Finn to text her— fucking _Finn_ , of all people— for the last hour while the feeling of dreadful certainty sunk its claws into his chest.  Bellamy had a thing for her, and it wasn’t just because she kissed him at that party her first week in Arkadia.

It was because he liked her— she was smart and funny and understood him on a level that kind of terrified him—  and because, as Miller so sagely pointed out, she was emotionally unavailable.  She had moved across the country for Finn— Finn Fucking Collins, the very definition of a fuckboy, if Bellamy had understood Octavia’s definition of the term correctly— only to discover that he was not, as he’d lead her to believe, single.  Bellamy had seen the pain flicker across her face when they were about to leave Miller’s party and Finn walked in with Raven on his arm.  Bellamy always wanted to punch Finn in the face, more or less, but at that moment he probably would have committed honest-to-god-murder if it could have stopped Clarke from looking like that.  She was brave enough to quit a job and move across the country because she wanted happiness and she fucking deserved to be _happy_ , goddammit.

For a brief period of time, it looked like she was getting over Finn and Bellamy told himself he would just wait until she was ready.  But then Raven found out about Finn’s time in New York and ended things, and now— well, now Bellamy was exactly where Miller predicted he’d be: pining over a woman waiting for someone else to call.  Clarke didn’t even have to say it; he just knew, because that was how things in his life tended to go.

He’d been teasing her about being too serious and Clarke rolled her eyes.  “Please, I’m the Queen of Giving No Fucks,” she announced, and threw back the shot.  “Next,” she said, and set the shot glass upside down.

“That is the biggest lie I ever heard,” Bellamy laughed and poured her another one.  And then one for himself because fuck it, they were both lying.  “You give all the fucks.  All of them, all of the time.”

Clarke wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and snorted.  “I think you’re talking about yourself there, Mr. I Have A Position On Everything, Including Greek Drama.”

“Hey, Antigone is way better than Oedipus.  The only reason they teach that one in high school is because of fucking Freud, and I think we can all agree we’d be better off without his musings on penises and moms.”

“I rest my case,” Clarke said with a grin that made his heart skip a beat.  

“How does that prove anything?  I’ve always known I give all the fucks.  We’re talking about you here,” he threw back.

Near Clarke’s elbow, her phone lit up with a text message.  

She didn’t even glance down.


	59. We Have A Situation Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tripped and fell face first into a pile of Pitch-related feelings. Also for @bgonemydear for baseball related reasons.

  
This was not a situation Bellamy was prepared to handle.

Sure, he’d dealt with crushes on teammates before.  He could shrug those off without breaking a sweat, and as the years went on he started feeling more and more like an exasperated parent to his teammates than a peer.  That was the nail in the coffin of having-crushes-on-fellow-players for him, or so he thought until _she_ showed up.

Bellamy assumed pulling Clarke Griffin up from the minors was a stunt, borne of desperation, a losing season, and her father’s last name.  He was kind of a dick to her at first because of that, but within three weeks he’d realized she was way more than a stunt— she was a talent; raw, powerful, and real.  He got used to sitting next to her on the bus, reviewing game tapes and sketching out a plan for their opponents while the countryside smeared past.  Then he got used to eating dinner with her, and breakfast, and working out in the gym before and after practice.  In under two months, Clarke had gone from a rookie stunt he thought would be gone before the end of the season to the best friend he’d had on the team since Miller retired two years ago.

And now there was this: an absolutely undeniable crush mixed with something far more potent.  Bellamy told himself he could handle it, but then Pike had assigned them to adjoining rooms and Clarke knocked on the door separating them just after curfew to announce that she wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a good long while yet.  Bellamy pulled out his tablet and they started reviewing Dax’s last six at-bats, which devolved into a long-winded mutual rant about the well-known shadiness of the Cardinal’s manager.  Bellamy had almost gotten into a fight with him back when Shumway tried to poach him from the Cubs and Clarke wanted nothing more than to punch him in the face for Shumway’s well-publicized  “girls don’t belong in baseball” snarl back when it was just a rumor that the Cubs were considering her.

And then, like things always did with them, they ended up getting kind of personal.  Bellamy found himself telling Clarke all about his break up with Gina and why he couldn’t blame her for wanting something better, and Clarke confessed she’d fallen for her old agent and almost gave up playing so she could be with Lexa.  Normally subjects like this were painful for Bellamy, but with Clarke it actually felt good, like the weight on his shoulders was being lifted a little.  Clarke laid down with her head on his pillow at some point, her responses to his comments coming slower and quieter until she drifted off.

That was when he realized it.  

He ached to curl around her, feel her breath fanning against his skin.  He didn’t just want to have sex with her, he wanted to _sleep_ with her, feel the soft comfort of another body next to him.  But he wasn’t a creep, so he moved to the other bed in his room and forced those images out of his mind.

He mostly succeeded, but then he woke up and couldn’t quite bring himself to get up and wake her up too.  She looked peaceful like that, and once again he was seized with the not-appropriate-for-a-teammate desire to find out what she sounded like when he kissed her neck.  Clarke’s blue eyes opened and she smiled softly at him before cocking her head.  “Were you watching me sleep?” she teased.

“Listening to you snore, more like,” he made himself say.  “You realize you snore worse than Miller, right?  And he sounded like a fucking lumberjack.”

“Liar,” she laughed, and whipped the pillow at his face.  

Bellamy caught it in his left hand and threw it back without missing a beat.  “You’d better go get your shit together or else you’re gonna be sitting next to Murphy on the bus.”

Clarke stuck her tongue out at him.  “Please, you’re gonna be left sitting all alone and you know it.  Nobody wants to sit next to a cranky grandpa,” she said, but she sat up and slipped her flip flops on.  She stopped at the door between their rooms.  “So save me a seat, gramps?” she asked over her shoulder.

Bellamy flipped her off and she laughed, shutting the door behind her.

He was definitely, completely, 100% unable to handle this situation.


	60. We Have A Situation Here (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of chapter 59, with a (smutty) part III in the works.

Bellamy nodded at Diana Sydney, pretending he was listening to her but really keeping his eye on Clarke, who was all the way across the room surrounded by a gaggle of news-media types.  She had a glass of white wine in her hand, half-gone, but Bellamy suspected it was the only glass she’d had all night.  (Enough to look like she was loosening up for the media but not enough to actually loosen up.  Clarke was controlled to an extent that would have been terrifying if it weren’t so goddamn impressive.)  She caught his gaze and lifted her glass in acknowledgment, teammate to teammate after a middling season with a surprisingly strong finish. **  
**

Of course, it was thanks to her that they finished the season in the playoffs.  She inspired him and he inspired the rest of the team and suddenly the Cubs went from the middle of the table to making a run for the playoffs and Bellamy couldn’t have been happier to end his time in the majors this way.

Because just an hour ago, after an exhaustingly long meeting with Pike, Kane, and the rest of the front office, Bellamy had officially submitted his retirement.  The news would go out tomorrow afternoon, first with a release issued by the front office and then a press conference that he was dreading but would manage to survive because after that, he was done.  Well, mostly.

Bellamy dragged his attention away from Clarke and her unfairly-short black dress  and back to Sydney, who always seemed to think that owning a share of the team meant she got to touch the players like they were gladiators and she was a Roman patron.  He casually stepped back so her hand fell from his arm, but by the time he managed to look around the room for Clarke he caught the back of her head as she slipped out the side door.  “I’m sorry, there’s someone I need to speak to,” he said, realizing that Sydney was probably in the middle of a sentence but honestly, he didn’t give a damn anymore.  Bellamy hurried out of the ballroom and down a side hallway, his highly polished dress shoes slapping against the tile floor.

He caught her in the players’ parking lot just as she was unlocking her ancient Camry.  “Clarke!” he called from several rows away and she turned to wait for him, her face pale under the bright white streetlight.  “Hey, there’s— there’s something I wanted to tell you,” he said when he made it over to her, and stuffed his hands awkwardly in his pockets.

Her breath fogged in the early October air and she had her team jacket slung over her shoulders, mercifully hiding the expanse of skin that her strapless dress revealed.  “I thought Sydney was going to try and eat you for dessert,” she grinned wickedly.

“She definitely tried,” he laughed.  “But— uh, well, I wanted you to hear this from me and not from a reporter.  I’m done.  Retired.  It’s official.  Going public tomorrow.”

Clarke’s blue eyes widened with surprise.  “I only get one season with you?” she asked, and there was a note of sadness in her voice that made his stomach twist.

“I had to,” he explained.  “My orthopedist said my elbow wouldn’t last another season, and I’ve put off the shoulder surgery for too long.  But I’m not leaving the organization— I’m going to be managing the scouts.”  It was the job he wanted the most; to help cultivate new talent and bring people like Clarke up from from the minors.  

“You’ll be good at that,” she said, and it sounded genuine.  “But it’ll be weird not pitching to you.”

“I’ll watch every game.  And call you after to tell you what you could have done better.”

“And just like this season, you’ll be wrong,” Clarke laughed.  She tipped her head to the side and considered him for a long moment.  “So…you’re not my teammate anymore, are you?”

Bellamy shook his head.  “Good,” Clarke said, and before he realized what was happening her hands cupped his face and she kissed him.  

 


	61. We Have A Situation Here (III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of the Pitch AU (chapters 59 and 60). Also my submission for Bellarke Week '16, day six (fluff).

“I’ve been wanting to do that for months,” Clarke mumbled against his lips, and then Bellamy’s body unfroze.  He sought her mouth again and her lips opened, her tongue seeking entrance. **  
**

“Me too,” he gasped between kisses. He pinned her against her car and his hand slipped under her jacket to palm the curve of her waist as he kissed her back.  Clarke arched against him and he wedged his knee between her legs, making her groan.

Some time later (Clarke’s fingers were wound in his hair and his were skimming up and down her sides) Clarke pulled back, her lips already swollen.  “Someone could see us.  My place is close by,” she said, half-heartedly straightening his mussed hair.

“Mine is nicer,” he countered, and Clarke’s grin grew wider.  She lived in a studio not too far from the field, but if her corner of the locker room was any indication, it was probably a mess.  “Follow me there?”

“Don’t drive too slow,” she said, and opened the door behind her to climb in.

Bellamy left his car in his driveway to let Clarke in through the front door.  He caught the way her eyes widened slightly at the grand staircase in the foyer, and she peered around to goggle a bit at the floor-to-ceiling windows that during the day showed a good swath of Lake Michigan.  It was impeccably decorated by the interior designer he hired after Gina left, but it had never quite felt like home.  None of it was his furniture— hell, he hadn’t even picked out the photos the designer framed of him and O— and he mostly avoided it when he had the chance.  But it was far, far nicer than he ever dreamed of, growing up in a rowhouse in a crappy neighborhood.  

“Did you…want a tour?” he asked, because now that they were here, it felt a little awkward.  In the parking lot it had been instinct and passion, but now— well, now he was about to spend the night with someone he’d wanted for months, someone he cared about more than he thought possible.

Clarke wove her fingers between his.  “Maybe in the morning,” she said drawing a smile from him. He liked how that sounded— like she was planning on a future for them.  “Where’s the bedroom?”

Bellamy leaned down and kissed her slowly.  “Upstairs,” he said, and started tugging her up the staircase.  He shrugged out of his jacket once they were in his bedroom and Clarke did the same, and for a moment they just stared at each other.  

Then Clarke took the lead.  It was odd how she always did that, first on the field and now here, but it felt right somehow.  She stripped him first and pushed him back on the bed, stopping to shrug out of her cocktail dress before covering his body with her own.  He trailed his fingers up her spine and stopped when he got to the fabric of her strapless bra.  He unhooked it and tossed it to his hardwood floor with a soft thump.  “I like these,” he whispered and swept his thumbs over the purple, silky boyshorts she wore.

Clarke smiled down at him, her hair already falling from her loose bun.  “I like these too,” she said, plucking at the waistband of his boxer briefs, and then talking seem pointless, because their bodies could say it better.  That night, he found out how she tasted, and learned the soft giggle she made when he kissed her neck.  He mapped the curves of her body with his fingertips and Clarke kissed every inch of skin she could, and after he watched her shrug on his button down from the party.  “Going somewhere?” he asked lazily.

“Just to the bathroom,” she said and started padding across the room.

“Planning on peeing in my closet, rookie?” he asked when she opened the door, and her answering laugh was possibly the prettiest sound he had ever heard.  Clarke turned and looked at him expectantly until he pointed towards the bathroom door in the adjoining wall.

When Clarke returned, she dropped his shirt before climbing back under the covers.  Bellamy pulled her underneath him and ducked his head to kiss the bottom of her ribcage.  “I have a press conference tomorrow at three, but I hope you know that aside from that, neither of us are leaving this bed any time soon,” he said against her skin.

Clarke ran her fingers through his hair again.  She seemed to like doing it and he liked it too, liked the way her blunt nails scratched against his scalp with each pass.  “Think you can keep up with me?” she teased.

Bellamy kissed her navel and then the flare of her hips.  “I can try,” he said, and then surged up to kiss her on the lips once more.  She shifted and let him sink down between her legs as he deepened the kiss.

The situation was officially handled. And in the best way possible.


	62. Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @tachypneic requested bellarke + cooking breakfast the morning after.

**  
**Clarke was normally a lot better at the one-night-stand thing. **  
**

Namely, she usually had them _leave_ afterwards, but she should have known this one would be different.  For one thing, she found she actually liked talking to Bellamy.  She’d figured that much out at the bar (that was why she invited him back to her place), but she never thought they’d keep talking _after_ they had sex.  Talking so much, in fact, that she’d fallen asleep at some point without her usual “well, I have an early meeting, so…” lie.

However, given that the pillow next to her was now empty and she was _disappointed_ , she was now officially terrible at one night stands.  Clarke scanned her bedside table to see if he’d left his number— she wanted to see him again, because for the third time, she was _horrible_ at this— but didn’t find a note or anything and her heart sunk a little bit further until there was a large clatter from downstairs.

Clarke jumped about a foot in the air and then realized that meant he hadn’t left because maybe he was just as bad at one night stands as she was.  She snagged a sweatshirt from the armchair and slipped on a pair of fuzzy socks before padding down to the kitchen.

Sure enough, Bellamy was standing at her stove with a spatula and a large bowl of batter near his elbow.  “Are you making pancakes?” she asked.

Bellamy looked over his shoulder and grinned.  “I am.  Sorry about the noise— I was looking for a whisk and knocked over a pan.”

“Pretty sure I don’t have one,” Clarke admitted, and his eyes darted to her bare legs.  “You didn’t have to do this, though.  I did pick you up in a bar, after all.”

“I wanted to though,” he said with a shrug.  Impulsively, she rose up on her toes to kiss his cheek because as it turned out, being bad at one night stands was kind of great.


	63. Neighbors

There you are,” Bellamy crooned and knelt down.  The missing sheep was curled underneath a clump of prairie grass, a soft yellow-white smear in the fading twilight.  There was a pinkish red stain on its shoulder and it bleated sadly.  Bellamy parted the wool to eye the gash, but it didn’t look deep.

“So you must be my neighbor,” a throaty female voice behind him said.

Bellamy stood and turned, taking in her red gingham shirt knotted just at her navel and her white-rimmed cat eye sunglasses pushed up into her blonde hair.  She looked like she had just stepped out of one of Octavia’s magazines and nothing like a Wyoming rancher.  “Clarke Griffin,” she said, and stuck her hand out.

Bellamy nodded tightly.  He had kept to himself in the past few years, what with Octavia moving down to Denver to be with the soldier she met in France, but he had heard that the property next to him had sold to some woman from back east.  He assumed it was an older woman with children and not— well, not a woman younger than him.  “Bellamy,” he said, a little belatedly.  “Bellamy Blake.”  He shook her hand and realized it was maybe the first time he had touched another person in weeks.  Months, even.  Her skin was soft and smooth and he had to remind himself to let go.

Behind him, the sheep gave another pained bleat.  “Want me to look at that?” Clarke asked, but she was already hauling herself over the timber fence.

“You a veterinarian?”

“Nurse,” she said and crouched down.  “Just a cut,” she pronounced, even though he’d already figured as much.  “Think it was a coyote?”

Bellamy shook his head and pointed to the barbed wire stretching between the two lowest wooden rails of the fence.  There was a tuft of wool caught on one of the barbs, fluttering as the wind picked up.  “Coyotes might go for a lamb, but not a full-grown ewe,” he said and privately wondered how a woman who didn’t know that was going to make it as a rancher.

“Good thing I’m not ranching then,” she said brightly, as if reading his thoughts.

Bellamy gathered the ewe in his arms and stood, jerking his chin back towards the barn and house.  Clarke fell into step beside him.  “So then…why move out here?” he asked after several moments of not-uncomfortable silence.  “If you’re not ranching, I mean.”

“I just wanted some space.  Somewhere I could be alone.  After— after everything.  Did you serve?”

“Navy.  South Pacific,” he said.  Bellamy didn’t really like talking about it, but there was something about Clarke that made him feel like she wouldn’t push.

He was right.  “I was in North Africa,” she said.  “Hence the nurse training.”

Bellamy didn’t have much to say to that, and she didn’t seem to expect him too.  “It’s quiet here,” he said finally.  “And pretty.”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and smiled, her red kerchief a bright flash of color as the approaching darkness drained everything else to a purpleish grey.  “I do some photography— would you mind if I used your property sometimes?  You’ve got a perfect vantage point of the mountains down near your south fence.”

“Help yourself,” he said with a shrug.  And then, in an effort to be neighborly, “But only if I can see the photos when you’re done.”

They reached the spot where Clarke’s house— a low, whitewashed bungalow with windows facing the mountains appeared over the ridge and she vaulted back over the fence.  “It’s a deal, neighbor,” she said, and Bellamy smiled.  He carried the sheep back to the stable and set about cleaning out the wound, chiding the ewe gently as she tried to escape from his grip.

Having a neighbor would be nice, he decided.


	64. Sleeping with the Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @bangitybang requested "Character A is related to Character B's mortal enemy" from a list of one night stand prompts.

“So what brings you to LA?” Bellamy asked.  Sweat was cooling on his skin and he laid on his back, hands tucked behind his head.  Maybe he should have asked her that earlier, but, well, chemistry was chemistry and it had been a long time since he’d met someone with whom he sparked, so when Clarke had mentioned her hotel room one-and-a-half drinks in he’d thrown down some cash on the bar and followed her up.

Clarke propped herself up on her elbows and let her hair hang down over her shoulder.  “Visiting my mom,” she said, and Bellamy had to fight to keep from tucking her hair behind her ear.  He didn’t want to stop touching her, but that sort of move was probably out-of-bounds for a one night stand, which this clearly was.

Except his stupid hand didn’t listen to his brain and then his fingers were curling those loose locks back anyway.  “And you didn’t feel like staying at your old house?”

“She moves around a lot, so where she’s living right now isn’t where I grew up.  There’s space for me there, but it feels weirder than just staying in a hotel,” she shrugged.

Bellamy flicked his eyes towards the clock and did a quick mental calculation.  It was 11:30pm, and the meeting with the studio was in exactly twelve hours.  But Pike would want to meet beforehand to strategize, and Pike’s house was all the way up in Santa Monica.  With traffic, that meant Bellamy would need to leave his apartment at 7am— or, if Clarke was okay with him staying over and showering here, he could leave the hotel at 7:30 at the latest.  Either way, a decision sort of needed to be made.  He really, really,  _ really  _ didn’t want to leave, but it had been literally years since he’d done the one-night-stand thing and he was reasonably sure “mind if I stay to cuddle” was not on the list of approved things to ask.

“Trying to figure out a polite way to pretend you have an early morning meeting?” Clarke asked with a wry smile.

Bellamy cuffed his hand around her neck and drew her down for a kiss.  She laughed a little against his lips and he smiled again.  He had smiled more in the hours since he met Clarke in the hotel bar than he had in weeks.  He’d have to thank Indra for asking to meet here, only to get a flat tire and have to cancel.  They could talk about Indra's contract with Maison Margiela next week, but Clarke Griffin felt like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  She was smart and brash and pretty and never once asked what he did, which meant he didn’t have to play the “How many famous people do you know?” game, which was one of Bellamy’s least favorite Hollywood games to play.  

Being an agent wasn’t really his life dream, after all.  He fell into it when Octavia got her modeling contract because their mother wasn’t really present enough to be trusted, and once O signed with Disney it had been a baptism by fire.  He found he was good at it— it helped that he literally loathed most producers and execs and they weirdly seemed to like him  _ more  _ because of that— and pretty soon he wasn’t just managing O.  Pike was the biggest name in his roster (Octavia was more famous but he had stepped back as her manager years ago) and while Bellamy didn’t always see eye-to-eye with the man, he did respect Pike’s brutal work ethic.  “My meeting isn’t until after eleven, but I have a strategy meeting before then up in Santa Monica.”

Clarke nipped at his earlobe.  “Strategy, huh?  I assume that means you’re in the business.”

“I am,” he conceded.  He shifted so she was draped on top of him and ran his fingers down the divots of her spine.

“Well, you’re too well-dressed to be a struggling actor, so...prostitute?” she teased.

“Nailed it.  You can leave the money on the nightstand,” he deadpanned.

“So what’s this strategy meeting for?  I’m pretty good at that sort of thing,” she said, nuzzling his neck.

Officially, the strategy meeting was to figure out how to convince Warner Brothers that diversity means casting more than one non-white, male character in a speaking role, but the back-up plan was “if that fails, at least convince them that casting Abigail Montrose was tired and pedestrian.”  It was a little weird that Pike’s main rival for the role was a white woman, but ever since Abigail had persuaded Paramount that she was a better fit for Captain Alex Saunders— the hotshot pilot in the epic _Star Battles_ franchise— Bellamy and Pike had been dogging her footsteps.   _ Casting Abigail means we can introduce a romantic element to her friendship with General Rossi! _ Paramount had claimed, and no amount of  _ If romance is what you want Pike will make out with whomever you want him to make out with; that’s literally his job _ could convince them otherwise.  And now it was payback time, because Bellamy had been holding a grudge against Abigail for years and once again, she was up for a gender non-specific part in a franchise (fantasy this time) that Pike could play just as easily.

But officially, all of that was secret.  And while Bellamy believed that Clarke really was an artist in New York, he couldn’t risk her spilling the strategy to someone else.  Hollywood was a town that thrived on gossip, and  _ Montrose v Pike: It’s war! _ was a headline Bellamy wanted to avoid.  Even if it was true on a technical level.  Hollywood was a rough game if you weren’t a white man, and Bellamy played to win.  That was just how it went.  “Just trying to get my client the best part available,” Bellamy said finally.  He really didn’t want to talk about it more, because now Clarke was resting her head on his shoulder and drawing idle circles across his abdomen.  He wanted to stay like this forever— or at least until tomorrow morning.

* * *

 

He got his wish, although when his phone blared with an alarm the next morning he briefly considered just chucking it.  Pike would fire him, but it might mean a couple extra hours in bed with Clarke and dammit, he was a goner.  But Clarke rolled out of bed with a groan too.  “I have to get going,” she said when he whined and grabbed her wrist, tugging her back down for a kiss.  “My mom’s up for this part this afternoon and there’s some dick out there trying to talk the studio into rewriting the part for a man.”

Bellamy sat up.  “Your mom’s an actress?”  Something about her last name suddenly  _ pinged  _ in his subconscious.  He hadn’t given it much thought last night— Griffin was a pretty common last name, he figured— but now it made his gut curl inward uncomfortably.

Clarke grimaced.  “Uh, yeah.  She’s— uh, well, she’s kind of well known.”

Bellamy’s stomach plummeted even further and then next to his phone, Clarke’s android lit up with an incoming call.  A familiar face appeared, her trademark braid falling loosely over her right shoulder.  “Why is Abigail Montrose calling you?” he asked, even though deep down, he knew.

“Because she’s my mom,” Clarke muttered, and an iron curtain fell around his chest.

He was officially sleeping with the enemy.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to @mereditheo and @ponyregrets for their pinch hitting on this one.


	65. Neighbors (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @mynonuniverse asked for more in the Neighbors 'verse. Continuation of chapter 63.

At first, Bellamy thought he imagined it.  It had been snowing for three days— there was no way someone was knocking on his door.  It must have been the storm, or else a critter had taken refuge under the porch.  But then he heard it again: three deliberate taps, too evenly spaced to be the wind or an animal.

Bellamy opened the door to a stiff burst of wind and snowflakes.  “I brought provisions,” Clarke said, holding up a bottle of whiskey in her mittened hand.  Her voice was muffled by the red plaid scarf wrapped around her face and she had a brown aviator’s hat tugged down low over her forehead, the sheepskin flaps covering her ears.

A tiny smile flirted on the corner of his mouth and he stepped aside to let her in.  He had seen more of his neighbor than he imagined he would in the past few months, but he wasn’t complaining.  Mostly he ran into her when she was taking photographs on his property.  He would stop if he could spare the time and more often than not, he found himself talking to her for longer than he intended.  He’d even gone over to her place once or twice to see her developed photos and ended up staying for dinner.  Clarke had a way of bringing him out of himself in a way he thought he’d forgotten.

But this was the first time she’d shown up on his doorstep looking like half a snowman.  “You shouldn’t be out in this,” he scolded and closed the door behind her.  “If the storm picks up again, it’ll be whiteout conditions out there.”

Clumps of snow dripped down to the floor as she shook out her hair.  “I know,” Clarke admitted.  “But I was going to lose my mind if I stayed inside one more day.  And I can see your house from mine, so I figured I’d risk it.”

“I thought you moved out here to get away from people,” he teased, accepting the bottle of frigid whiskey from her hands. 

“People, sure.  But I can’t stay locked inside for much longer,” she said, and Bellamy had to glance down.  Her eyes were so...blue sometimes.  It was disconcerting to have her in his kitchen, smiling brightly up at him.

He showed her into his living room and Clarke sat down on the floor in front of the fire and pulled his box of records in front of her crossed legs.  He didn’t have many— Octavia took most when she moved— but Clarke flipped through them with a critical eye.  She selected one and then pulled a sketchpad (the edges slightly damp from the snow) from her army-issued satchel.  “Making yourself at home, aren’t you?” Bellamy asked to cover up how much he liked it.

“Oh, I’m sorry, was I interrupting something?” she asked with a pointed look towards the book he had left on the sofa when he heard the door.  

Bellamy narrowed his eyes at her and unscrewed the whiskey bottle.  It burned going down, and he couldn’t fight the smile that crossed his face when he handed her the bottle.  She pushed up the sleeves of her thick blue flannel shirt and opened to a clean page of her sketchbook.  Bellamy took her lead and went back to his book, and the fire crackled, the record played softly, and her pencil skimmed across the page.  The wind whistled outside and he would have to go see to the animals in a few hours, but for now, he was content to simply let the world go on turning.

He finished the rest of his chapter and heard the clink of the whiskey bottle again.  Clarke was taking a pull and frowning at her sketchpad, her foot tapping in time to the jazzy beat.  “The ocean?” he asked, squinting at what looked like foreboding, ominous cliffs and choppy water.

“The Mediterranean, but...yeah.  Ugh, it’s terrible, don’t look at it,” she said and flicked it closed.  Her foot kept going and Bellamy stood up and stretched out his hand.  

Clarke looked at it blankly.  “Come on, dance with me,” he said, and when she raised her eyebrows he rolled his eyes.  “Do you not know how?” he teased.

“I was thinking you didn’t,” she laughed and slipped her hand into his.  It had been years since he danced with anyone— not since the war ended— and just as long since he’d flirted.  It was easier than he remembered, or maybe it was just her.  Clarke let him pull her into a slow, revolving sway and before the song was half over she was resting her forehead on his shoulder.

“I’m not very good at this,” he admitted, more to himself than to her.  He thought back to Gina, to Echo, to Roma.  To every woman who deserved better than someone broken like him.  There was a part of him that wanted to tell Clarke to run away, but another, selfish part, that didn’t.  It was that selfish part that made his hand twitch on her lower back and press her even closer.

“Me either,” Clarke replied softly.  “But maybe— maybe we could figure it out together?”

Bellamy breathed her in.  “I’d like that,” he agreed.

 


	66. Sleeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a discussion with @bgonemydear, @ponyregrets, and @reblogginhood about Bellamy as a serial cuddler.

Bellamy had not spent the night in his own bed in nearly a week.  

First it was Harper, waking up half of Alpha block with her screams.  Monty was gone on a scouting mission so they had come to get Bellamy instead, and he spent the next half hour listening to her recount what it was like to be drilled into, over and over again.  Bellamy couldn’t help, couldn’t erase those memories, but he could listen.  And when the time for listening was through, he could sit on top of her covers and draw circles on her back until she drifted off.  He spent the night with his head resting against the wall, dozing in fits and starts.

* * *

 

Then it was Monty, back from his scouting mission but unable to close his eyes, visions of his mother’s last moments running on a loop behind his eyelids.  Harper came and found him— she had guard duty that night— and asked Bellamy to look in on him if he had time.  Bellamy always had time for the delinquents, so he knocked softly on Monty’s door and asked if he wanted to talk.  He didn’t, but Bellamy sat down on his bed and patted his thigh, letting Monty rest his head there.  Bellamy ran his fingers through his friend’s thick, soft hair while his breathing evened out and spent another night sleeping sitting up. His neck ached something terrible the next morning but he didn't regret it, because Monty looked a little better.

* * *

 

“When was the last time you slept?” he asked Miller the following night, because Miller had bags under his eyes and walked like a man underwater.  Miller mumbled something about  _ having a hard time sleeping alone _ , but Bryan was a sore subject with him these days (and Monty an even sorer one), so Bellamy didn’t push.  But he also stopped by just before lights out and raised his eyebrows in question.  Miller rolled his eyes but lifted up the covers in invitation, so that night Bellamy slept with his arm tossed over his best friend’s sleeping form while Miller snored like an engine with a gear loose.

* * *

He was planning on sleeping in his grim, cold compartment that night when he walked past engineering and heard a familiar round of blistering curses.  He walked in to find Raven hissing at a pile of tech, but when he asked what was wrong she just snarled _ like you’d understand what a polarity meter is _ at him.  Bellamy shrugged, because she was right— he wouldn’t.  “Want a drink?” he offered instead.  So they picked up some rations of moonshine and went out towards the fence in a dark corner far from the glare of the spotlights and dull roar of the generators.

“I miss her,” Raven admitted, and Bellamy’s throat grew tight.  He couldn’t respond, so he just raised his glass towards the stars and Raven did the same.

Neither of them slept that night, preferring instead to reminisce about those they had lost.  It felt good to have someone to miss her with, if nothing else, but the next morning he was so tired it hurt to breathe.

* * *

 

Bellamy spent the night after that on the ground outside of the tent Octavia had claimed for her own.  She refused to set foot in the compartment she’d shared with Lincoln, and getting her back to Arkadia had been trial enough that Kane didn't protest when she set up a small tent instead.  She had always had nightmares but Octavia didn’t shriek with fear when she woke— she would wake, frozen in panic, because even as a child, she knew that her screams could end them all.

Somehow, Bellamy always knew when she had one.  Even now.

So he grabbed his blanket and a pillow and moved to the soft spring grass outside of her tent.  Octavia nodded to him when she emerged the next morning, something like thanks in her still-cold eyes.

* * *

 

He was circling his compartment, wondering how Jasper was holding up and considering going to check on him when someone knocked on his door.  

“They’re worried about you,” Clarke announced when he let her in.

“Who?”

“The kids,” she said simply.  “They say you’ve been Goldilocksing their beds.”

“I have not,” he protested, but Clarke smiled gently at him.

“When was the last time you slept?  A whole night through, and not outside or with Miller jackhammering through granite next to you,” she asked.

“So what is wrong with Miller?” he asked instead.  “Is he sick or something?  Is there a family of lumberjacks living in his nose?”

Clarke laughed and climbed into his bed.  She patted the spot next to her and looked at him pointedly.  

Bellamy joined her and laid down.  This felt awkward; more awkward than it should considering just a few nights ago he’d done the same for Miller.  “I can sleep by myself,” he pointed out.

“I know,” Clarke replied, nudging him onto his side.  Bellamy rolled and closed his eyes and for a moment, panic seized him.  The same thing happened every night— panic and grief and fear, all tangled together and roiling his stomach.  It made his chest feel tight and he wanted to leave, to run away, to stay up all night cursing and laughing and crying with Raven or listening to Harper recount her fears.  He wanted to do anything but sleep, but then Clarke curled around him, her arm around his waist and her nose pressed against the nape of his neck.  Her knees rested against the back of his thighs and her chest expanded and contracted behind him.  He made himself copy her breaths, slow and steady, in and out, until the urge to flee had passed.

“See? this is better,” Clarke murmured, and Bellamy covered her hand with his, pinning it to his heart.

It was.

 


	67. Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @bleedtoloveher, the best friend a lady could have. Happy Birthday, and thanks for everything.

Octavia always had the best parties. **  
**

Her mom worked too many jobs and was too checked out the rest of the time to care, so as long as people stayed to clean up the empties and spot treat the carpet they were free and clear.  They had it down to a science at this point, complete with Monty and Jasper dropping off some free weed for Nygel so she wouldn’t call the cops when Monty’s music inevitably got too loud.  People would get drunk, Clarke would confiscate their keys, and everyone would spend the next morning groaning about their hangovers and straightening up.  It was basically a sacred tradition at this point, which was why she had been so pissed at Bellamy for trying to shut it down.  This was their last chance to be together before they all went off to college in a couple of weeks, so it wasn’t just some party.  It was _the_ party.

But fortunately, Bellamy had one weakness, and that was Octavia’s puppy dog eyes.  She’d worn him down and now the party was in full swing.  The only flaw was that Bellamy insisted on babysitting too, which really just meant attempting to do things Clarke had already done.  (”No one has keys to turn over!” Raven yelled at him an hour ago.  “Clarke already took them!”)  Eventually he gave up and just stood in the kitchen, attempting to look intimidating.  It worked on the straight guys, but now the kitchen was packed with everyone else trying to catch his eye.

Clarke told herself she wasn’t one of them but really, who was she kidding?  She had eyes.  Bellamy was hot and always had been, but when she first met him she was fourteen with her braces still on and he was seventeen and completely uninterested in his little sister’s friend.  She knew he wouldn’t notice her then, but now…now, she maybe had a chance.  The braces were long gone and her boobs had gotten a lot bigger, and she’d lost that pre-teen nervousness around people she was attracted to.  It was worth a shot, anyway.

She hoisted herself up on the kitchen counter next to where Bellamy was on his elbows, glaring at Murphy.  “I know he looks like he’s going to murder someone but really, he’s harmless,” Clarke explained with a nod towards Murphy.

“And you know that how?”

“Well, for one thing he definitely cried when we read Little Women in Sophomore English, so…”

“Hey, Beth dying is a goddamn tragedy,” Bellamy protested, and Clarke bumped his shoulder with hers.  He laughed and she liked how that sounded.  She wanted him to do it again, but more than that, she wanted to be the cause of it.  Also, she wanted him to put his mouth on her mouth.

“And if you ever need to piss him off, just mention Laurie and Amy getting married,” she continued.

“Well, Jo’s a fucking idiot,” Bellamy chuckled.  “So what’s your deal at these things, anyway?  I haven’t seen you drink anything yet.  Isn’t that…the point?”

Clarke shrugged and bounced her heels off the cabinets.  “The point is to have fun.  Sometimes I drink, but not too much.  Somebody has to keep the kids in line.”

“That’s what I’m here for tonight.  Go— have fun,” he urged.

“Maybe I am having fun,” she said, dropping her voice a little.

Bellamy cocked an eyebrow at her and she held his gaze long enough that he looked away first.  “You’re trouble, aren’t you?” he muttered.

Clarke tilted her head to the side and let her hair spill down her shoulder.  “Is that a bad thing?”

He smiled, a quick flash of teeth that made her heart stumble a bit.  “For me?  Yeah.  For you?  That depends.”

“On what?” she flirted.

Bellamy leaned forward and her lungs stopped working because it seemed like he was about to kiss her.  She licked her lips and watched his freckles blur before her eyes, but then he stopped.  He was close enough that she could feel his breath fanning her cheek and a blush started crawling up her neck.  “On just how good your game is,” he smirked and backed up.  “See you around, Griffin,” he said, and melted into the crush of people in the living room, leaving her sitting on the kitchen counter with her heart thundering like she’d just run a marathon.

Oh, it was _on_.


	68. Snowfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @girlonfireofdistict12 requested bellarke seeing snow for the first time.

Bellamy’s odd little huff of happiness brought Clarke out of her slumber.  “What’s going on?” she asked, blinking.  The light was strange— too soft to be direct sun, but too bright for how early it felt. **  
**

“You should see this,” he said, standing and turning his back.  He always did that, even though they’d been sharing a cabin and a bed in Safe Haven for months now.  At first it was just because it was easier— with both of them on the Council they were constantly together until all hours— and now because it felt right.  It wasn’t anything more, at least not yet, but it was comforting to have another body next to her at night.  They both had nightmares and it was nice to have someone who understood, who would just hold you until sleep claimed you both again.  But even with that intimacy Bellamy always insisted on turning around to give her privacy when she got out of bed, as if he didn’t spend most nights with his legs entwined with her bare ones anyway.

Clarke pulled on her leggings and thick wool socks before padding over to his side of the bed and peering out the window.  It was iced up, as it had been for weeks, but now outside there was a blanket of white.

 _Snow_.

Clarke had hated snow during her lost months, because all it meant was being colder and wetter than usual.  She’d been too lost in grief and rage and pain to see the beauty, but now it took her breath away.  She hurriedly stuffed her feet into the winter boots the Azgedans had been making for everyone and threw the door open.  

Everything was soft and silent.  Snow coated the ground, the trees, and the cabins, glittering in the early morning light.  All around her doors opened and people stepped out, raising their faces in wonder.  Clarke heard Bellamy step out beside her and she leaned into him, letting him drape his arm around her shoulder.  It was too cold to stay out like this for long, but thick snowflakes were catching in his hair like a crown and she couldn’t stop smiling.  She slipped her arm around his waist and squeezed, and Bellamy kissed the top of her head and they stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, until the chill drove them back inside. 


	69. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got inspired by THAT SCENE in the trailer.

Clarke wiped at her tears when the door blew open, but Bellamy didn’t seem to see her at first.  He kicked it shut viciously and punched the wall.

She wanted to stand and check on him, but she didn’t have any energy left.  She’d only made it through the third truckload of the bodies before fleeing, because once more, she had blood on her hands that she couldn’t justify.  She’d been  _ so sure _ she was doing the right thing, but now— now she was  _ wanheda _ again.

Bellamy looked at her and sucked at his knuckles.  He had argued against her plan at first, and she wondered if he was just as furious with her as she was, but his eyes didn’t look angry, just said.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.  “You were right.”

Bellamy closed his eyes.  “We don’t— we don’t need to do this,” he replied.  “I agreed with you in the end.  This...this is on both of us.”

“We’re not going to pull this off,” she said, voicing the fear that had been lurking in the back of both their minds since the council meeting.

“You don’t know that,” he said, blinking rapidly and sniffing as he looked down.

“You still have hope?”

“We’re still breathing,” he said, with just a flicker of a sardonic smile.

Clarke sighed and looked at her lap.  Everything was pressing down on her again— the walls were closing in, and this time, she couldn’t leave even if she wanted to because soon there wasn’t going to be anything left outside the gate.  Bellamy's hand came to rest on her shoulder, gentle and comforting, and she grabbed his wrist and turned her cheek to him, needing a moment of connection while her emotions swirled beyond her control.  Bellamy kept his hand there and knelt down, his other hand coming to cradle her cheek.  “You and me— we can do this.  Somehow,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Clarke shifted on the bench and let him sit down next to her, curling into his side.  She took his hand in hers and kissed his bruised knuckles.  Bellamy rested his head on hers and sighed, and his muscles started to relax the longer they leaned into each other.  “Looks like we’re back to square one,” she said, trying to push her grief down where it belonged.  

They had people to save, after all.

 


	70. I'll survive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon asked for Gina to still be around after Clarke comes back, and I can't resist my girl Gina.

Clarke stepped into what had turned into the cantina, but Bellamy’s eyes darted to the woman behind the bar and he drew up short.  “I’ll, uh, meet up with you later,” he said, and turned to go. **  
**

Clarke pondered that as she took her seat and waited for Gina to finish washing the glass she had in her hand.  Bellamy had been nearly frantic in Polis, searching the crowd for Gina’s curls and crushing her into a hug when he found her, alive and mostly unharmed.  But since the return Clarke hadn’t seem him with her once, and she wondered what changed.

“We’ve got moonshine and moonshine,” Gina said, turning her attention to Clarke, but then she shook her head a little before pouring Clarke a shot.  “He used to sit there, you know,” she said with a nod to the empty stool on Clarke’s left.  “Right there, even if the rest of the bar was open.”

Clarke took a drink, because she knew what Gina was implying, but she didn’t know how to answer.  She didn’t know how to untangle this mess, didn’t even know where to begin.  “How are you doing?” she said instead.

Gina shrugged with a rueful smile.  “It feels weird to be a bartender while the world is ending,” she admitted.  “But I figure you guys will let me know if there’s something else I should do.  And in the mean time…people want to drink.”  Clarke nodded, because after all, that was why she was here.  Because the world was ending and she needed something to loosen the tension in her shoulders.

Two drinks later, she found her courage, and so did Gina.  “Do you remember him on the Ark?” Gina asked.  

“A little,” she said, which was kind of an exaggeration.  She remembered his mother being caught, of course, and she had a vague memory of him as a cadet, telling her and Wells off for being out too close to curfew.  But when she came down on the Dropship, she’d realized she never paid much attention to people who didn’t live in Alpha station.  That realization still stung, along with all that it implied.  She hardly remembered Gina at all, except for the time she’d come to med bay with the flu and Clarke had had to turn her away on account of being “non-essential.”  She hated so much of that life, and she hated it even more now that it looked like it might not be over after all.

Gina poured herself a shot.  “He was a couple of years older than me, and when we were kids— like, really little— I had this huge crush on my neighbor.  I thought he was so cute, and I’d follow him everywhere, but he didn’t want me around.  I was just a baby, you know?  One day, Zahn told me to go away, and I started crying, and— Bellamy yelled at Zahn.  Told him to be nice.”  

“That sounds like him,” Clarke said with a sad smile.

Gina looked down at the empty glass and spun it around.  “He stopped coming over to Zahn’s place after that, and…well, it must have been Octavia was born, you know?  That was why he stopped.”

“What happened?” she asked Gina when she poured her a third drink.  She didn’t have to specify— Gina knew.

“Pike happened,” Gina said darkly.  “But… it was more than that, even before.  He didn’t want to let me in.”  Clarke opened her mouth to say something— what, she wasn’t sure— but Gina shook her head.  “I’m not saying it was about you.  I don’t know if it was, and I don’t know if he knew either.  I just knew…I knew he cared about me, but I also knew there was a side of him he didn’t want me to see.  And when he went with Pike…I guess he was right.  I couldn’t agree with it, and I couldn’t— I couldn’t be with him.  Not after that.”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke said, and she meant it.  She wished none of this had happened, wished Bellamy could have been happy with the woman standing across from her.  She was good, and kind, and he deserved that— but she deserved to be loved too.  They all did.

Gina gave her another rueful grin.  “I’ll survive,” she joked, and Clarke smiled in spite of everything.

 


	71. Within Their Grasp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @chash requested a hesitant bellarke kiss.

Clarke could see people milling about in the broad valley before them when the scout rode up.  “Azgeda is approaching from the north, and your mother’s caravan has already arrived.”  The question was on Clarke’s lips but the scout answered her before she had to ask.  “Bellamy’s caravan should be arriving when we do,” he said, and Clarke thanked him and shifted the pack on her back. **  
**

She hadn’t seen him in weeks, but Raven’s radios had kept them in close contact.  They talked every night, exchanging information and sometimes just talking to hear the other’s voice.  But they were finally almost there— they had months and months of work ahead of them, but at least they would be safe.

 _Safe_.  It was a word that had once lost all meaning to her, but now was within her grasp.

Clarke’s caravan started spreading out behind her as they reached the valley floor.  She looked through the crowds of people, searching, and then found him making his way towards her.  A slow smile broke across her face and she walked to meet Bellamy near the baggage cart Jackson was helping unpack.

He didn’t kiss her and she didn’t kiss him— their lips simply met as if they had both been planning it all along, neither of them breaking stride.  Clarke felt happiness inside of her threatening to bubble out, as if her skin couldn’t contain it all.  His hand cupped her jaw and Clarke wrapped her fingers around his forearm, smiling through it.

Bellamy broke it off first, looking a little dazed.  “We should probably help unpack,” he said, and it took her a minute for her brain to stop reliving that kiss.

“We probably should,” she admitted, and then Jackson asked her where the syringes should be stored and they were both swept up in the hubbub of unpacking an entire civilization.

Hours had passed by the time Clarke found him again, crouched in his tent unpacking a box of books.  Bellamy turned and stood quickly at the sound of her footsteps, his hand reaching out for her before falling uselessly to his side.

Suddenly, she felt shy.  She knew why she’d come to him but it now felt awkward— the kiss in the valley was months of unspoken moments coming to fruition, but now the future stretched before them and Clarke didn’t know how to proceed.  She wasn’t used to this— having something in front of her instead of behind.

Bellamy seemed to feel it too, shuffling from foot to foot.  “Hi,” she said stupidly, and Bellamy looked down.

“Hi,” he said, and she took a step toward him.  He did the same and then they were standing just inches apart, Clarke finding it hard to look him in the eye.

She reached out and took his hand, noting the fresh scratch that marred the back of it.  It helped to touch him, his warmth slowly spreading through her and grounding her to him.  She looked up and his eyes were shining, his face so open her heart gave a painful bound.

This kiss was hesitant, all brushing lips and quiet giggles.  But then they found their stride again and before she knew it, they were slowly shedding their clothes.  All of the weight she had been carrying— the pain, the fear, the doubt— seemed to be lifted with each touch of his hand, each press of his lips to bare skin.

Bellamy’s bed was hardly more than a pile of blankets on the ground, but it made her smile.  It reminded her of the dropship, of evenings spent bickering over a campfire while the rest of the delinquents slept.  He made her smile too, his happiness melting into hers like a flame into ice.

Their sweat had cooled by the time she looked for her leggings— piled next to his books, underneath his shirt— and debated getting dressed.

Bellamy tightened his arm around her waist.  “Where do you think you’re going?” he mumbled, even though she hadn’t moved.

“We should help unpack.  My mom wants to get the clinic set up tonight,” she said.

“They can do that without us,” Bellamy replied, rolling her to face him.  He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and kissed the tip of her nose.  “We’ve earned this.”

Clarke nestled her face into the crook of his neck and breathed him in.  They had earned this, she decided.

So she stayed.


	72. Break Ups Suck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon requested a post break up kiss for bellarke.

Clarke was about to pull out her keys to the house when she looked up and saw a pair of unmistakable combat boots dangling from the deck of the tree house.  Bellamy hadn’t been up there in years— not as far as she knew, anyway— so something must really be bothering him.

She climbed up the rope ladder and pulled herself through the trapdoor.  “Fancy seeing you here,” she said, readjusting her legs to dangle off the edge next to him while Bellamy shifted to give her more space.  He looked glum with his arms folded across the railing, his chin resting there as he stared out into space.

“Sorry, didn’t think you’d be home for a few more hours yet.”

“The filter broke, so practice got cancelled.  I have to be in the pool at 7am tomorrow instead,” she griped.  “But this place is…this is ours.  Of course you can come up here,” she said.  Technically the tree house was on her property and had been built by her dad, but Bellamy and Wells had been a part of it from the start.  It was Bellamy’s idea to have a rope ladder you could pull up after yourself— something he bitterly regretted the time Octavia ran away from home and ended up spending the night up there while the rest of them were powerless to get her down— and Wells had been responsible for bringing up blankets and pillows for them to sit on.  Those were long gone now, but Clarke would never let her mom take the tree house down.

But once high school started, they all started going their own ways, and now Wells had debate and Clarke had swimming and art and Bellamy had…Octavia.  It was unfair, really, how much he had to give up for his sister, and Clarke resented her for it sometimes.  Bellamy should have been running for class president this year, not working in the grocery store produce department from 4-9pm four days a week.

“She broke up with me,” Bellamy said quietly.  “I can’t get many weekends off before Thanksgiving to go visit her, and it looks like her classes are going to be really hard so she won’t have much time to come back and see me, and she said— she said she didn’t really see much point in continuing.”

Clarke nodded sympathetically.  She’d truly liked Gina, but when Bellamy announced they were going to stay together when Gina left for college, she’d had her doubts.  After all, she and Lexa thought they could make it when Lexa’s family moved to Florida, but six months, dozens of tearful phone calls, and one terrible 10-hour-each-way bus ride later, they were done.

Clarke folded her arms on the railing and rested her cheek on them to look at him.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “Break ups suck.”

He sighed shakily.  “They do, don’t they?  And it’s so stupid, but I just keep thinking— next time I see her, I still won’t have kissed anyone else, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, so much will have changed by then.  She won’t be my girlfriend, and maybe she’ll even have someone else.  She’ll have moved on, but she’ll still be the last person I kissed.”

“You don’t know she’ll move on so soon,” she said gently.

“I know.  I just— I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Clarke sat up straight.  “Here, look at me,” she said, and he did, but when she leaned forward he jerked back.

“What are you doing?”

“Trust me?”

Bellamy watched her lick her lips and nodded, and this time, when she leaned forward he stayed put.

The kiss was dry and brief— hardly more than a peck— but still it made blood roar in her ears for some reason.  This was _Bellamy_ , the guy she’d spent her childhood playing knights and princesses and dragons with (they used to take turns playing all three, although they generally agreed Wells was the best princess, Clarke was the best knight, and Bellamy was the best dragon).  They used to sit in this very tree house and swap out Halloween candy (Wells got all the tootsie rolls, Bellamy claimed the gross candy corn pumpkins, and Clarke would take all the chocolate bars with nuts) and plan their futures together (Wells was going to be president, Clarke a cop, and Bellamy a teacher).

And now she had just kissed him, and her hands felt like they might start to shake.  “There,” she said with a bravery she didn’t quite feel.  “Now when you see her again, you’ve kissed someone else.”

Bellamy didn’t say anything, just jerked his head in something like a nod.  She was progressing to full-on panic now, so she slung her legs through the trapdoor and started down.

She had reached her back door when he spoke again.  “Thanks,” he called, and her ears started to burn but she forced herself to turn around.

“Good night, Bellamy,” she replied, and then went inside before she could do anything else stupid.


	73. Twizzles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carrieeve requested bellarke and "where the hell do you think you're going?" and I've been watching a lot of Yuri on Ice.

Clarke screwed the cap back onto her water bottle and set it down on the bleachers.  Bellamy watched her reach down and peel off her skate guards and sighed.  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he asked, exhausted.

“Back out there.”

“To practice alone?”

“I want to get the serpentine step sequence right,” she said.  “You don’t have to stay.  We’ve worked hard today— just go home.”

Bellamy pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes so hard he saw stars.  He had been looking for a new partner ever since Gina (Kane was right, falling in love with your partner was a bad idea) and on the surface, Clarke seemed like the perfect candidate.  Wells had blown out his knee just after the Grand Prix Finals so she needed a new partner too, and her combination of intense dedication and willingness to try difficult moves made her a natural fit with him.

But then he met her.  They bickered constantly, and that was bad enough— and grounds for him thinking about suggesting to Kane that they both walk away and find new partners— but they were also electric when they were out on the ice.  With Clarke, it wasn’t just ice dancing— they were soaring over the ice, seamlessly weaving in and out of each others’ arms and winning the competitions to prove it.  They were damn near unstoppable when they were in sync, and they were both too competitive to let something as silly as “we can’t get along” put an end to it.

But one day they were yelling at each other in the middle of the rink— Clarke wanted to try a new lift but Bellamy didn’t think they were ready yet— and then something like a smile flickered across her face.  Before he knew it they were collapsing in each other’s arms laughing while Kane watched, bewildered, from the boards.  Just like that they went from enemies to friends, but that was six months ago, and now he was facing a new problem.

And it wasn’t like how it was with Gina.  With Gina, he’d always known exactly how it was going to end, even before they started.  But with Clarke, he couldn’t see an end and that was terrifying, and the way his heart would skip a beat when she touched his forearm was all kinds of problematic.  

Also problematic was Clarke’s habit of working herself to the bone.  He was bad about taking breaks too, but she took dedication to another level.  If she wasn’t careful she’d hurt herself, and honestly, Bellamy was more terrified of that than he was of having to find yet another partner.  Which was how he knew he was in deep, because finding an ice dancing partner at their level was no small feat.

He watched Clarke running through the hardest part of their routine out on the ice and sighed again.  He loved the lines she made, the delicate flutter of her fingers and the strength of her strokes.  He adored how she’d clench her jaw when she was focusing, and the furrow of her brow when her turns weren’t perfect.

He loved her, and that was a huge fucking problem.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and stood up, leaving his skate guards by the door, and went out to join her.


	74. Bathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I felt like bellarke + bathing + intimacy.

It took Clarke the better part of an hour.  First she had to walk to the central storage facility and check out the deep copper tub and lug it back to the cabin.  It was set on a small dolly that left muddy tracks through the hard, crunchy snow that still covered patches of the center of camp.  There had been a thaw for the past few days but Monty’s satellite had picked up a storm system moving their way, and no sooner had she reached the cabin near the council building did thick, fat flakes start drifting down from the iron grey sky.  She set the solar water heater to fill, but that was only good for about half of the total capacity so she filled several heavy buckets and hung them in the oversized hearth.

The trick with getting a bath to the right temperature was to get it a little too hot and then let it cool, but if you let it go too long you were stuck with a lukewarm bath that quickly became a cold one.  There was a reason most people preferred to use the communal bathing house on the outskirts of the camp— you had to share, but the water stayed the same temperature the entire time and it took a lot less effort.   But when Clarke got something into her head she couldn’t be dissuaded, so she waited until the water came to a simmering boil and then poured it into the tub.  She released the tap on the water heater just a short time later and watched the steam rise from her perch on Miller’s three legged stool.

Clarke was testing the water for the third time when the door opened.  “Monty’s storm is right on time,” Bellamy announced. His back was turned as he carefully shut the door to their cabin against the cold.  He had snowflakes in his hair, bright white against the dark curls.

“How are they?” she asked.  Bellamy had gone up the mountainside to check on the small encampment up there— several Azgedans and half a dozen of Luna’s people had decided to settle there instead, as their goats preferred the sharp slopes for grazing.  But someone from the council went up every other day to check on them, just to be sure.

“We’re going to have to send an team with Raven up— they’re down to their back up generator again,” he replied, his head down as he untied his shoes.  “I was thinking— oh, sorry, I didn’t realize...I’ll...I’ll go to Miller’s,” Bellamy said when he straightened and noticed the tub.  

Clarke stood and balled her hands into fists.  She’d been planning this all day, and there was no reason to be nervous.  They shared a cabin— and a bed—  after all, and it wasn’t like she was asking him for-- she wasn't asking him for anything.  He deserved this, for everything he did for all of them.  But still, she felt a little fluttery when she cleared her throat.  “It’s not for me,” she explained.  “I thought you’d like a bath.  And one without people coming in to ask your opinion on the fences or whatever.”

“For me?” he asked, and the confusion on his face weighed on her heart.  After everything, he still didn’t seem to think he was owed anything special.  Which was why she did this— dragging a tub that was half her weight across camp, heating up pails of water, even trading a pair of wool socks with a Trikru woman for soap that was soft and fragrant.

“For you,” she confirmed.  “I’m going to sit outside and threaten to shoot anyone who interrupts you.”

Half a smile played with the corner of his lips.  “It’s freezing outside.  And snowing.”

“I’ll dress warm,” she said, a little more fiercely than she intended.

He ducked his head down and rubbed the back of his neck.  “Stay,” he mumbled, and her heart did a funny little leap.  “It’s cold out, and it’s— it’s just a bath.”  She knew he was thinking of the same thing she was— that she woke up every morning curled in his arms, his erection pressed to the small of her back.  They pretended it was nothing— and it was, when you thought about it— and ignored it, but they had reached a level of intimacy that could not be denied.

She had intended to fight him, but the tips of his ears were turning red so she gave in.  “Okay,” she relented, and turned around to let him undress.  The rustle of his clothing made a blush rise on her neck, but by the time she heard the tell-tale splash of him lowering himself in she had herself under control.

“It’s safe now,” he said with a hint of humor, and she turned around.  Bellamy was laying back in the tub, his knees just barely breaking the surface.  He let out a long, slow breath and she smiled, pleased that he was enjoying himself.  “You didn’t have to do this, you know,” he said, opening one eye.

“I know,” Clarke said briskly, sitting down on the stool and handing him the soap.  “I wanted to.”  He looked away at that, and Clarke wished he wouldn’t.

Bellamy soaked for awhile, detailing the problems the mountain outpost was having— several goats seem to have contracted something but no one knew what it was— and dipping his head back into the water a few times before lathering up the soap.  He frowned at it.  “This isn’t the usual stuff, is it?”

“Trikru makes it,” she replied.

“What did it cost you?”

“Nothing I wasn’t willing to pay.  Here, let me,” she said, and took the soap from him.  She worked it into a lather between her hands and then started massaging it into his hair.  Maybe it was an excuse to touch him, but she felt weird just sitting and watching.  This way, she was less of a voyeur— although the tub was deep enough that she couldn’t see anything, at least not from where she was sitting— and more of a...participant.  Bellamy let out a quiet, contented sigh as her nails scratched his scalp and she bit her lip.  She picked up a glass jar from the floor and filled it with water from the tub.  “Tip your head back,” she ordered, placing her hand at the base of his skull.

Bellamy complied, closing his eyes and letting her pour the water over his hair until it ran clear.  His eyelashes fluttered for a second and then he opened his eyes, finding hers.  Clarke’s lungs felt tight and her heart was too big for her ribcage.  Her hand was still at the nape of his neck, but she set the glass jar down and brought her other hand to his cheek.  Her thumb swept across a spray of freckles, and Bellamy turned his head to press a kiss to her palm.  He whispered her name, and suddenly, it all made sense.

For weeks, Clarke had felt like they were dancing on the precipice of something but they were both holding back.  They’d lost too much, too quickly, and what they had— she couldn’t bare to lose him and knew he felt the same.  But last week, she’d overheard him and Raven laughing about something Gina had said once, and it felt good.  Being able to laugh about someone you’d lost meant you remembered the good instead of just the pain, and she wanted him to heal.  That night, part of her had wanted to turn around and face him when his arm curled over her as they drifted off, but she didn’t.  She felt like Bellamy was holding back and she didn’t want to push him, but now— now she realized that he would always hold back when it came to her.  He would always let her make the first move, because that’s who he was.  In moments like this, he would hold back until she was ready.

And she was, so Clarke leaned down and kissed him.  She started slow, but there wasn’t any point— once she pushed them over the edge, they were both gone.  Bellamy surged upwards and a wash of water sloshed over the side, soaking her sweater.  “Sorry,” he mumbled, taking her face in his wet, wrinkled hands and kissing her thoroughly.

  
Clarke tipped her head to the side to deepen the kiss, her hands now tangled in his hair.  “Don’t be,” she whispered.  “Don’t be.”


	75. Best. New. Year's. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @kacka, my fellow New Years Baby. And thanks to @bgonemydear for the idea.

Clarke shuffled out of her bedroom a little after ten.  She swung by the kitchen and filled up a mug the size of her head with coffee before flopping down on the couch next to him, just a little too close considering they were just roommates. **  
**

“Rough night?” Bellamy asked idly.

“No worse than usual,” she said, but her voice was a little hoarse.  “Happy New Year's, by the way.”

“Happy New Year's to you too,” he said, turning a page.  He wasn’t ignoring her— not deliberately.  He was just sticking to his resolution.  In a way.

“What did you do last night?”

“Went to Miller’s.”

“So you were home by 12:15?”

“12:20,” he replied with a grin, not looking up.

“You should have come out with us,” Clarke said and slurped her coffee.  She curled her legs underneath her and he reached over the back of the couch and pulled out the blanket Miller had knitted for him last year.  He tossed it over her knees, but she rearranged it to cover his lap too.

“Bars aren’t my thing,” he lied.

“By the way, I’m pretty sure Monty has a crush on Miller,” Clarke continued, shifting so her thigh brushed his.

“Miller definitely has a crush on him too,” Bellamy said, steadfastly not looking up.  This was safe territory, after all.

“Make any resolutions this year?”

Bellamy shrugged.  Officially, he had: no new relationships, at least not until he got his raging crush on his roommate under control.  Between Echo, Roma, and Gina blowing up in his face since he started grad school— and moved in with Clarke, something Octavia insisted wasn’t a coincidence— he’d decided he needed a break.

Granted, a large part of why he was terrible at relationships these days was currently inching closer to sitting in his lap, which was making the “control your stupid crush, you’re not fourteen” part of his resolution a little harder.

“You make any?” he asked, hoping she wouldn’t notice he hadn’t answered her question.

Clarke set her mug down on the coffee table.  “Just one, actually.  And you sort of screwed it up.”

That made him close the book— he hadn’t managed to take in a word since she sat down next to him anyway— and push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.  “I did? How?”

“By not coming out with me last night,” she laughed, but when he looked at her, she glanced down at her lap.

“And what was your resolution?  Convince your roommate to be less lame?” he teased.

Clarke chewed on her lip and looked up.  “No.  This,” she said, and leaned forward and kissed him.  It took his brain a minute to realize what was happening, and by the time he did Clarke had pulled back.  “Fuck, I’m sorry, I thought—never mind, let’s just…let’s forget that ever happened,” she said, her cheeks turning red.  She struggled with the blanket, but Bellamy reached out and stilled her movements with his hand.

“Wait,” he said.  Her eyes met his, and he barely had time to smile before he was leaning forward and kissing her back.  This was probably a record amount of time between making and breaking a resolution, but he didn’t give a damn because Clarke tasted like coffee and sugar and her hair was soft under his fingers, and she was laughing and climbing into his lap to kiss him properly.

Best.

New.

Year's.

Ever.


	76. Petrichor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @museumofflight asked for bellarke and Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move AND Petrichor - The smell of dry rain on the ground.

Clarke loved how it smelled after a rainstorm.  She loved it so much she had the word for it— _petrichor_ — tattooed in a delicate script on the side of her ribcage.  So after a blustery spring storm she pulled on her boots and went for a walk.  She’d been stalled on her latest piece for most of the day, staring at the canvas with increasing irritation until she was ready to scream and she hoped that maybe a walk would help. **  
**

The air was still cool from the downpour but already the sun was breaking out, setting the newly budded leaves sparkling.  She inhaled deeply and splashed across the street to the park.  Hardly anyone was out yet, aside from a few stragglers with surly faces and drenched clothes.  She took the path towards the arboretum, her black combat boots stomping across the delicate white petals that had been torn from the apple trees by the storm.  Clarke wasn’t really looking at anything in particular, just walking and breathing and letting the colors and scents of spring wash away the frustration, when out of the corner of her eye she saw a mop of dark brown curls.  Her heart stuttered and her stomach dropped, but it happened so often she was almost used to it by now.  It wasn’t worth a second look.

It was never him.

Clarke stopped and looked up at the delicate, arching branches.  They were coated in flowers now and would be heavy with crabapples in the fall.  She tried to tell herself she was studying the beauty of nature, but really her brain was running through the file of memories, so familiar and worn they almost didn’t hurt anymore.

_Meeting him in a bar.  Laughing and talking for hours and wanting to take him home and map those freckles with her lips but not wanting to stop talking, either.  Going for a walk instead, ostensibly on a hunt for an ice cream place that would be open after midnight but really as a pretense to just keep talking. Exploring the city as the streets emptied, and sitting side by side on a bench near the river as the sky turned a pale grey-pink, her head resting on his shoulder._

_Saying goodbye to him as he got into a cab to the airport for a three year fellowship in Rome._

It was stupid to be so hung up on someone she’d met for one night two years ago.  (Well, two years and ten months, but who was counting?)  Clarke had considered finding him on facebook but she decided it was better this way— she’d had twelve wonderful hours with him, and now she didn’t have to find out he was into internet conspiracies or something.  He could just be one perfect memory, and that would have to be enough.

But once his face had resurfaced in her memories, it was all she could see.  Clarke shook her head and looked down, deciding to complete her circuit around the park before sitting back down in her studio.  She kept her eyes on the ground when she walked past the man with dark hair sitting on the bench because she had learned long ago that confirming that it wasn’t him just made the ache worse.

“Clarke?”

She stopped, her heart thudding.  She shouldn’t know that low rumble.  It shouldn’t roll through her body like thunder, a distant memory and constant companion all at once.  She looked up, wondering if she was hallucinating, because…it was never him.  It never, ever was.  The men with dark hair that haunted her never had that spray of freckles across their cheeks, never had those straight, broad shoulders and dark eyes that looked just as terrified as she felt right this second.

Her throat closed up and she stared at him, waiting for the illusion to pass.  The seconds ticked by and the asphalt path was starting to dry, patchy grey spots now breaking up the slick black.  She blinked and he was still there, watching her with apprehension and fear and something like hope.

Her voice was a brittle, raspy thing when she found it.  “Bellamy?”


	77. Demonhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @jeeno2 asked for Duende, which means “Unusual power to attract or charm.”

There were some minor drawbacks to being a seduction demon. **  
**

There were also some major ones too, but that was kind of self explanatory, what with the whole “demon” thing and all.  But Bellamy knew what he was doing when he signed on Roan’s dotted line— his life, in exchange for Octavia’s, at the time hanging by a thread in a hospital room.  

And as demonhoods went, being an incubus wasn’t too bad.  He didn’t have to steal people’s souls, and he wasn’t consumed with a need for revenge.  He didn’t have to drink blood like the vampires, and he didn’t have to spread disease like the pestilentials.  He even got to keep his human form, which was better than most got out of the deal.  And he didn’t trick unwilling women into sleeping with him: he was an incubus, not a goddamn _monster_.  Mostly, being an incubus meant women were inexplicably attracted to him.  It meant a lot of tips at the bar with numbers on the receipts and sometimes an awkward conversation or two when someone cornered him on his way to the back.

Granted, he also didn’t have a soul anymore, but, you know.  Demon.  Deal with the devil and all.  (Technically, the devil’s son.  Which didn’t really matter, except Bellamy tended to be a little pedantic sometimes).  The lack of a soul was to be expected.

What exhausted him most, however, was never really knowing if someone was actually attracted to him, or if it was just the demon-powers-of-seduction thing.  With sex it was fine, so long as the women were sober and consenting (and had gotten over the whole “I’m a demon” reveal) but there was a part of him— the human part— that craved something more.  He wanted someone to joke with, someone to sleep next to, someone to be his partner.  He’d had it for a little while with Gina, but the whole demon-and-angel thing had proved to be just too much of a gap to bridge.

And that was why he had started being such a surly dick to Clarke, even though she was his favorite coworker at the bar.  (For inexplicable reasons, being a demon did not mean eternal wealth.   _That costs extra,_ Roan had said with a smirk when Bellamy complained about having to be a bartender.)  Because she was clearly attracted to him, but he didn’t want just sex from her— he wanted everything, or at least as close to everything as a demon could get.

He had just ignored her latest pass— she was getting increasingly obvious, which only bothered him more— when she slammed her hand down on the bar, making him jump.  “What the fuck is your problem?” she demanded.

Bellamy shrugged and wished desperately for someone else to come into the bar, but he was an incubus, not a trickster demon.  But since they were alone, he decided he would just tear the bandaid off and get rid of her.  It would hurt, but it was better than feeling like shit.  “It’s not— you’re not into me, okay?” he sighed.  

“I’m not?” she asked, amused.

“No, not— not really.  I’m an incubus, okay?  So you’re…you’re not really into me.  It’s the…demon powers.”

“The demon powers,” she repeated with a smothered smile.  “I take it you don’t talk to Roan much?”

“Not if I can help it. Wait, you know Roan?”

Clarke laughed, and against all odds, his heart lifted a little.  “Signed on his dotted line three years ago.  Clarke Griffin, Succubus,” she said, and held out her hand like she was meeting him for the first time.

“Wait, you’re—”

“– a seduction demon too, yes,” she finished.  “I thought Roan told you when I got this job.”

“Roan’s a dick,” he grumbled.

“As one would assume, being the son of the devil and all,” Clarke replied.  “But you honestly…didn’t know?”

“If I’d known, I wouldn’t have wasted all that time trying to dissuade you,” he said with a grin he rarely used anymore.

“If we close up, I doubt anyone would notice,” she said, leaning close.

“You count the cash, I’ll sweep the floors,” he said, and wrenched himself away from her.

There were still some minor drawbacks to being a seduction demon, but now there was one less.

 


	78. This Should Hurt More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @marycontrary asked for Anagapesis - The feeling when one no longer loves someone they once did.
> 
> Bellarke, but also bellina and gina/luna.

_This should hurt more._ **  
**

That was the first thought that crossed Gina’s mind when she saw Bellamy walking up ahead, Clarke tucked into his side.

She’d known what she was getting into when she started dating him, or so she thought.  Bellamy had been upfront with her from the start; _I fell in love with my best friend but she loves someone else,_ he had told her when she asked why he was on a dating site.  Her friends said it was a red flag— and it was— but Gina decided she liked him anyway.  She appreciated his honesty and besides, Clarke had moved to Baltimore to live with her girlfriend.  Bellamy was worth the risk, she figured.

Her yoga mat thumped softly against her hip and half a block ahead, Clarke laughed at something Bellamy said and then he laughed in return.

They’d made a good run of it, all things considered.  It was casual at first but it quickly became clear to her that he wasn’t really capable of casual, and in under three months he was practically living at her place.  And his feelings for her were genuine— she knew that, and she still didn’t doubt it.  He cared about her and she cared about him— maybe even loved him— but he couldn’t make it to that next step, no matter how hard he tried.  And god, did he try.

But she knew it was over even before Clarke moved back from Baltimore, single and in need of her best friend.  They were trying to make it into something they weren’t, and she was already trying to figure out a way to walk away when Clarke stopped by to say hello.  Bellamy had never told Clarke how he felt, but Gina took one look at the look on Clarke’s face and knew that their story wasn’t over yet.

She didn’t leave him because she didn’t want to come between their epic love.  And she didn’t leave with a smile on her lips and wishing him the best.  She’d left in anger and frustration, because he wanted to love her and he couldn’t, and that fucking sucked.  She’d spent months cursing him and getting drunk with her friends, plotting his inevitable downfall.

She left him because she deserved better, dammit.

And now there he was, in her line of vision for the first time in a year.  And Clarke was with him, and yet her heart didn’t twist or sink or any other cliche.  Next to her, Luna followed her gaze and twined their fingers together.  “That’s them, isn’t it?” she murmured.

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”  Luna’s face was nothing but concern, and Gina’s heart felt soft and mushy.

“I’m fine,” she said, and leaned over to kiss her girlfriend’s temple.

And she was.

 

 


	79. Car Trouble, Part I (ice mechanic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anon request for "Roan gets a flat tire or something and is stranded on the side of the road with no idea what to do & Raven comes to his rescue."

Raven was just closing up when the call came in.  “Disabled vehicle out on Highway 13,” Octavia said.  “We need a tow.” **  
**

“Can’t they—”

“They’re out-of-towners, not locals,” Octavia interrupted.  “So no, they can’t just leave it and let you get it tomorrow.”

Raven sighed and grabbed her keys.  “On it.  What mile marker?”

“Seventy two,” Octavia said, and hung up.

Raven found Octavia’s cruiser, lights still flashing, right where she said she’d be.  It was a Porsche 911– so yeah, definitely not local–  and the driver was leaning his hip against the door, looking annoyed.  He was handsome, but also kind of looked like someone she wanted to punch.

So her type, really.

Raven motioned to him and he popped the trunk, and after a quick check she started to laugh.  A blonde woman emerged from behind the car and looked amused.  “I told you you didn’t know how to drive stick,” she told the driver.

“I do too,” he argued, and his companion stuck out her tongue in response.  “I do,” he told her, and Raven kept her eyes trained on his face to keep from scoping him out more than she already had.

“She’s right, you don’t,” Raven replied, and the blonde grinned triumphantly.  “Your transmission is shot, so I’ll tow you back to my garage and see what I can do.  You and your girlfriend can stay at Gina’s B&B.”

“If I’ve gotta keep up the charade, this is gonna cost you,” the blonde announced.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he explained.  “More like…sister-ployee.”

“You’re not Jack Donaghy and I don’t work for you,” she threw back.  “Work wife, at best.”

“Anyway, how much this fix going to cost?” he asked, and Raven couldn’t help it— she dropped her eyes to the narrow vee of his waist and then dragged them back up.

“If you can afford a 911, you can afford what it’ll cost to fix it,” she replied, and his answering smile made her bite her lip.  It had been kind of a drought for her since she kicked Wick to the curb, and hey, he wasn’t going to be staying long.


	80. Car Trouble, Part II (bellarke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @callmehux asked for bellarke and brontide, which is is the low rumbling of distant thunder. Set in the same universe chapter 79. Also inspired by @queenofchildren‘s cowboy!Bellamy, because that reminded me how much I love small town fics.

“It’s going to rain,” Roan warned her when walked past him in the living room of Gina’s B&B.  He was ensconced in front of the fire, cozy with a book, but she was going to go nuts if she stayed inside much longer no matter how nice Gina was. **  
**

“I’m taking an umbrella,” she said with an eyeroll.  It was his stupid fault she was stuck in this town anyway— he’d wheedled her into coming to Echo’s wedding as his “girlfriend” (in exchange for him dealing with his mother the next time she got it into her head to be the world’s biggest pain-in-the-ass-boss, _and_ in addition to him paying for the entire weekend)– and he refused to listen when she pointed out he was shifting like a jackass teenager with his first manual.  So now they were stuck in a tiny little town and the only amusement so far was watching Roan try (and fail) to hit on the hot mechanic.  

“I’m going to go down to the garage and see how it’s coming along,” he said with would-be nonchalance.

“She’s out of your league,” Clarke said.

“I like a challenge,” he replied mildly.

Clarke rolled her eyes at him again and left, turning right at the end of the block on a whim.  She didn’t have her phone with her, but Arkadia was all of six blocks wide and four blocks long—  she couldn’t get lost.

But ten minutes later, just as the thunder that had been rumbling in the distance grew louder, Clarke looked up at the street sign and frowned.  She was on the corner of Maple and Oak, and she was _sure_ that was where Gina’s was, but…nothing looked familiar.  She was debating between going right and left and the sky opened up above her.  Clarke squealed and tried to open the umbrella, but it was stuck.  She darted for the nearest awning while she wrestled with it, but it stubbornly refused to open.  “Goddammit,” she swore, and hit it against the railing in frustration.

“Do you have a vendetta against all umbrellas, or just that one in particular?” a voice behind her asked.

Clarke spun to find a man in a maroon sweater watching her in amusement.  He was handsome, with dark, curly hair and a sharp jawline that reminded her of the sheriff’s deputy the night Roan’s car broke down.  “This one in particular,” she said with a rueful smile.  “I’m—”

“Clarke, I know,” he supplied.  “This town isn’t exactly big, and it’s my sister who found you guys stranded the other night.  Your boyfriend’s car is going to pay for Raven’s next three mortgage payments, by the way.”

Clarke sighed, because really, she was sick of correcting people.  “He’s not my boyfriend.  We’re just work friends.”

“Work friends that go to weddings together?”

“I’m sorry, is there a hotline in this town?”

“Yes, but you don’t get access to it until you’ve lived here three years,” he threw back.  “Here, come in out of the rain.  These storms don’t last long, but it’s four blocks back to Gina’s and you’ll be soaked.”  

Clarke followed him into the red brick building and looked around.  “Library?” she guessed, because it was full of books but she didn’t see a register anywhere, and it had a general air of lived-in-ness that bookstores never quite achieved.

“And historical society.  That part’s upstairs,” he said.  “And I’m Bellamy, by the way.”

Clarke dropped her useless umbrella to the ground and shook out her hair.  “I’d introduce myself, but I think that’s pointless by now.”

“It is,” he laughed.  “Want a cup of coffee while you wait?”

The library was empty, so she nodded and waited while he disappeared in the back for a minute.  The mug said _Arkadia Historical Society_ and Clarke asked how he ended up running both a library and historical society, and he made her explain just how she got roped into pretending to be Roan’s girlfriend for a weekend.

“According to my sister, that’s like, a guaranteed way to fall in love,” he laughed.

“That only works in movies and romance novels,” she said with a grin.  “And I love a good fake-dating story, but that’s just not me and Roan.”

Bellamy arched a brow and god, why was everyone in this town so attractive?  “No?  What’s this one then?  Mysterious stranger blows into town and upsets everything?”

Clarke echoed his tone.  “Something like that.  Depends, really.”

“On?”

“On whether or not the handsome librarian is single.”

For a beat, Clarke wondered if she’d gone too far, but then he grinned.  “I like the sound of that,” he said.

Part of Clarke wanted to lean forward and kiss him right then, but the sun was breaking through the clouds and she still had at least two more days to go in this town, so she saw no point in needlessly rushing things.  Instead, she straightened.  “I should get going,” she said breezily.  “I’ll see you around, Bellamy.”

He watched her pick up her umbrella and licked his lips.  “Count on it.”


	81. Feminist Agenda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @reblogginhood requested Clarke in the shirt that was on the cover of the Mockingbird comic. Also, I was drunk when I wrote this, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

She wore this shirt _explicitly_ to ward off guys.  Like, that was the whole reason Clarke bought a pink shirt that said “Ask me about my feminist agenda.”  It was guaranteed man repellent, she figured, and she was in a “maybe I need to take a break from dating” phase of her life. **  
**

But here she was, splayed out on her back while the guy from the bar went down on her.

To back up for a second— he’d smiled at her when she walked in, but then waited for her to approach him (Which was against the “stop dating, Griffin” orders she’d put herself under, but whatever.  He was hot and she was intrigued.)  And then he not only liked the shirt, he understood the reference.  ( _I don’t read a lot of comics, but I bought Mockingbird in solidarity after all that,_ he said, and she officially had a crush).  And then he proceeded to be charming and hot and as the bar was closing, he leaned closed and asked if he could find out how she tasted.

So that’s how she ended up going to his place and letting him go down on her while she still wore the shirt.  Her legs were draped over his shoulders and her fingers speared through his curls, and god…he was good at this.  Too good, maybe?  Was there such a thing as a guy who was too good at cunnilingus?  His tongue flickered back and forth across her clit, and Clarke decided that no, there was no such thing as too good at cunnilingus.  He kept going, licking deeper and deeper until her brain stopped working and all she could feel was his tongue and lips and the soft rasp of his stubble on her inner thighs.  Every single nerve in her body was attuned to him and his movements, and her fingers tightened in his hair involuntarily when he trapped her clit between his lips and sucked.  Her peak started slow, ripples in a pond, and then he kept going, licking and teasing until the ripples turned into waves and then into tsunamis, her body bowing and rolling and shaking before she fell back to the mattress, boneless.

Bellamy crawled up to kiss her, soft and sweet, and she decided that that shirt was the best $20 she had ever spent.


	82. Being That For Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon asked for Bellamy having a nightmare and Clarke making out with him to distract him. They specified modern au but I fucked up and it's canonverse instead.

The bed shifts under his weight and Clarke is awake in a second.  She used to sleep like the dead back on the Ark, but ever since her lost months in the woods she’s become attuned to the slightest sound.  “What is it?” she asks, instantly alert. **  
**

It takes Bellamy a second to answer, like he’s trying to catch his breath.  “Nothing,” he says finally, his voice a ragged, raspy thing.

“Nightmare?”

“No worse than usual,” he replies, but Clarke sits up next to him and nuzzles against his shoulder.

“So pretty bad,” she says, and starts rubbing her hand up and down his spine, soothing, slow strokes while his back expands and contracts with each deep, shuddering breath.

“Just go back to sleep,” Bellamy says, even though they both know she’s going to ignore him.  He does the same when she’s the one gasping for air, her skin feeling cold and clammy and stained with the blood her nightmares are always drenched in.

Clarke nods and presses her mouth to the tip of his shoulder blade, her strokes turning to circles as his breathing starts to slow.  He turns his head and his lips find hers in the darkness, and she kisses him softly before she realizes what’s happening.  “Wait,” she whispers, and pulls back— not far enough to stop touching him, but far enough to keep herself from doing something they’d both regret.  

It’s not that they haven’t kissed before.  They share a bed, after all, and a cabin, and perhaps they shared both of those things for longer than people thought before they stopped pretending what they were to each other, but it was still so new.  She kissed him goodbye one day two weeks ago before she left on a hunting trip and things between them shifted accordingly, but so much was still left unspoken.

But this— this feels dangerous.  Just moments ago he was panicking, terror flooding his veins while his synapses tried to process the hell that earth had been for him for so long.  Kissing him now feels wrong; he’s too vulnerable, she worries, like she’s taking advantage.

But Bellamy shakes his head and captures her lips again.  “Please,” he begs, and she knows what it feels like to stand on that precipice and grasp wildly for someone, _anyone_ to stop your fall.  She can be that for him, she decides, so she kisses him back.  His lips are soft and a little dry, but his tongue slowly brushes hers and she cards her fingers through his hair, something deep inside of her stirring.  Eventually Bellamy shifts to lay her back down and cover her with his body.  It doesn’t progress beyond this— not now, and not yet— but Clarke can feel his muscles loosen as they trade kisses, and when she finally comes up for air he kisses the tip of her nose almost playfully.

“Better?” she asks.  Bellamy drops another kiss to the corner of her mouth, and she has her answer.

 


	83. Don't ever do that again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @rashaka, who wanted the first time Bellamy initiates a hug with Clarke.

Bellamy was in the armory when the alarms went off.  Acid rain came every few days now, and Raven and Monty had rigged up a system so they at least had a few minutes warning.  It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get people inside in time without serious injuries.  The first few storms before the alarms had been terrible, full of burns and screams that Bellamy still heard when he was trying to fall asleep.

So he considered it an achievement when the alarm went off and he hardly registered it until Harper cast him a sideways look.  “What?” he asked, finishing his tally of bullets in one box and moving to the next.

“You’re just…taking this well,” she said.

“The alarm should get everyone in in time,” he shrugged.  “Finished with the rifles yet?”

“Still have that box to do.  But— you know she took people to the dropship, right?”

A year ago, there was only one _she_ in his life. But Octavia was safe in Polis now, nowhere near this storm— and it wasn’t like she’d let him rescue her anyway.  No, now there was another woman who didn’t need a name, whose absence could send fear straight through his chest like a spear. “When did she leave?”  he asked, abandoning all pretense of counting.  

“Just after lunch,” Harper said gently, and his numb fingers dropped the box with a clatter.  Bullets rolled everywhere, bouncing against Harper’s boots.  “If they found what they needed, they might be back already.  And besides, Clarke is smart— if she saw the clouds, she’d find cover.”

But Bellamy was already pushing out of the armory and barreling towards the hanger.  People were pouring in and those already inside were searching anxiously for their loved ones.  Bellamy was buffeted by a stream of humanity but every face he saw was the wrong one.  There was a woman with blonde hair, but it was too short.  And that woman was the right height, but her hair was too dark.  Blood roared in his ears and he was about to start calling her name, but then he heard something in the distance.  He could just make out Clarke shouting, and he found her holding the door just outside the airlock, tucked under the small overhang as rain hissed down, singeing whatever was left of the grass in camp.  David Miller pelted past him, his clothes smoking but intact, and Clarke darted through the slam the door.

Bellamy had just had enough time to take her in— two arms, two legs, and no obvious burns or blood— before he swept her into his arms.  The relief was so palpable and overwhelming he wasn’t thinking, just reacting.  Clarke tensed for a heartbeat and then relaxed when she realized who it was, her arms wrapping around him while he buried his face in her neck.  He clung to her as the confusion in the bay died down, and he noticed a few too-indulgent smiles when he finally let go.

As he came back to himself the shame set in.  “Don’t do that again,” he said, a little too gruffly.

“Do what?” she asked dryly.

 _Leave_.  It was on the tip of his tongue, but he could still remember all too well the invective he hurled at her when she reappeared like a ghost while he was still lost in grief over Gina.  He thought he’d broken them that day, and he couldn’t bring himself to remind her of it, even playfully.  “Worry me like that,” he settled on.

“I’m okay,” Clarke said, swallowing a smile, and he felt the corners of his own mouth twitching up too, but he fought it.  He’d been _so scared_ , even just for the short time he realized she might be in danger.  He didn’t want to look too closely at what that meant.

“I should…get back to work,” he said, feeling a little foolish.  But Clarke was smiling broadly now, and he couldn’t help but smile back.

“You do that. Meet me for dinner?”

“When’s your shift in medical?”

“Not until seven.”

“Then I’ll see you at six.”

“It’s a date,” she said with a wink.


	84. On the importance of cunnilingus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the salt cellar. (Set some time in season one, inspired on a conversation about how Finn is probably That Guy).

Bellamy was working on repairing a section of the wall when he overheard two of the delinquents snickering.  He set down the makeshift hammer and listens, because teenage criminals laughing is now something that makes him a little anxious.  It’s not much, just idiot kids bragging about sex, but when he heard the first boy laughing about getting his dick sucked and walking away, Bellamy decided he needs to do something about it. **  
**

That night, he cornered the two he overheard a short distance from the fire.  “I hear you’re enjoying your freedom,” he said as intimidatingly as possible.  They exchanged worried looks, and Bellamy arched an eyebrow.  “But before anything else happens in my camp, I think we need to talk about how you’re treating Ursula.”  (He’d asked Miller for the latest gossip as surreptitiously as he could before starting this, and according to him, Isaac— the blond, skinny one— was mostly hooking up with Ursula.  The other one— who had encouraged him in laughing about _hitting it and quitting it_ — had several sticks in the fire, but had been thus far unsuccessful.  Probably for good reason.)

Isaac looked relieved.  “She’s into it, I swear,” he said, and his friend (Martin, Miller said) nodded rapidly.

“It’s not about that.  It’s about being a good partner,” Bellamy said, and he heard a dry snort that could only belong to Miller from his side.  “You have something to add?” he asked his friend.

“Probably not, if it’s about sex with women.  But I’m still gonna listen,” he said, and sat down next to Martin and Isaac with an expression of faux-interest.

Bellamy rolled his eyes.  “Look, I get it,” he started, and Martin and Isaac exchange a look.  “We’re— we’re a lot freer here, and you might not have been able to…be with someone so easily on the Ark.”  He couldn’t condemn them for it— he’d certainly had his fun the first few days— but he’d realized something from being with Raven.  She’d initially tried to wave him off when he kissed her hipbone, and it was only after a quick conversation that she’d agreed.

And then, the second his tongue touched her clit and her fingers started tugging on his hair and he realized that Finn, in all likelihood, was one of _those_ guys.  The guys who, for whatever reason, felt that their pleasure was most important.  A lot of times it was based on ignorance, or shyness, or even just a mistaken belief that for men, sex had to involve an orgasm and for women, it didn’t.

And Bellamy was not about to let that continue.  Not in his camp.  “But if you’re going to expect oral sex from someone, you have to be willing to give it in return,” he said, and Isaac’s eyes got wide.  “So first up, communication.”

“Wait, you’re going to give lessons?” Miller asked gleefully.

“We’re going to talk about communication,” he growled, but already Miller’s laughter was drawing over a few more curious ears.  Fine then— they’d all learn the importance of reciprocal oral sex and the female orgasm.  “Any time you’re entering into a sexual relationship, you have to be able to ask your partner what they want.  This goes for men or women, by the way.”

“I’d like some tips, actually, if that’s on the table, ” a guy named Sterling said as he took a seat next to Miller.

“That’s not what I’m doing.  Now, it’s important to ask what they’re comfortable with, but it is also equally important that you be an enthusiastic partner.  You can all have your own limits, but I personally think that if it’s something you want to be done to you, you should also be willing to do it for your partner.  There’s always exceptions, but—”

“– this is the worst sex lesson I’ve ever heard,” Clarke interrupted.  “And why the hell are you doing this?”

Bellamy glanced at her and took in her amused grin and the way the firelight played in her hair.  He wanted to say   _I’m doing this because I know there’s no chance in hell Finn went down on you_ , but for one thing, that’s not something you say to your co-leader.  And for another thing, the thought of Clarke splayed out across his furs, his head between her thighs, suddenly made it hard to breathe, much less think.  “Because I think there needs to be a little more equality in the orgasms around here,” he said, and Clarke laughed.

“We’re talking cunnilingus, right?” she asked cheerfully, and at the shocked gasps from the now-crowd huddling around them she grinned.  “Okay, who knows where the clitoris is?” she asked, and  Miller had never looked more entertained.

Bellamy leaned his lips down to near her ear.  “I was planning on doing more like, general consent and enthusiasm,” he whispered.

“And that is both boring and not super helpful,” she said.  “Well, that’s not entirely true.  But Pike did drill us all pretty thoroughly on consent, right?” Clarke directed the last bit at the group, and Bellamy was met with a chorus of _yes means yes_ and giggles.  “Right.  So, your partner has given you an enthusiastic yes.  Now, the clit.  Who can tell me where that is?”

What followed were some of the most painful minutes of Bellamy’s life, because it was Clarke and she was talking about _cunnilingus_ and damn, not only did she know what she was talking about, she was hot and pretty and smart and funny and he would do anything to spend the rest of the night with his face buried between her legs.  But she was with Finn— or at least that mess wasn’t completely over— so he had to let that go.  

Clarke was now discussing when to add digital penetration while licking a clit, and he decided to jump back in.  “Not everyone likes that,” he countered, and Clarke raised an eyebrow.  “I’m just saying, your partner can tell you what they want.  And if you’re the person receiving, don’t be afraid to speak up.”

“So you’re saying you like them talkative?” she teased, and there was another chorus of giggles.

 _I’m saying I want to hear you beg for it_ , he wanted to say.  “I’m just emphasizing the importance of communication on both sides,” he said instead, and maybe it was a trick of the firelight, but he could have sworn that Clarke’s eyes darkened for a second, like she knew what he was thinking.

“Man, this is the weirdest foreplay I’ve ever witnessed,” Miller muttered under his breath, and Bellamy wanted to kick him in the shins.

Clarke clucked her tongue and turned back to the crowd, and Bellamy allowed himself a small smile.

Because whatever this was between them— it wasn’t over.  Not by a long shot.


	85. On the importance of cunnilingus (II)

Bellamy climbed the ladder to the third floor of the dropship and hoisted himself through.  Clarke had her back to him at the table, sorting out the leaves for wound packing.  “I think we need more,” she said over her shoulder, her hands deftly plucking out heart shaped leaves from the pile.  “And we need someone to teach them how to identify leaves again, because half of these are useless.”

“Judging by your rousing success at getting them to identify the clit the other night, that should be your job,” he teased.  

“Clits are easy.  Finding the right tree is hard,” Clarke deadpanned.  He leaned his hip against the table and she kept sorting.  “What made you decide to do that?  Just suddenly inspired to improve oral sex ratio around here?” she asked.

“Something like that,” he said mildly.  He hadn’t seen Finn around her much lately, and he kept telling himself not to read too much into it.  But if she wanted to flirt, he’d flirt.  They’d earned a little fun, after all.

“Well, your methods left a little to be desired, but as a person with a clit the impulse is appreciated.”  She was smiling as she pulled a stack of clean rags forward.  “From what I’ve heard, orgasm equality is skyrocketing in camp now.”

“And you?” he asked, dropping his voice just slightly.

“What about me?” she asked distractedly.  She flipped through the stack of rags again as if counting, and then stopped when she caught his meaning.  “I’m…doing okay.”

“Just okay?” he asked, and waited.  Clarke kept her eyes down at first, and he wondered if he’d crossed a line.  But then she looked up, challenge and satisfaction warring on her face, and he knew they were on the same page.

“I could do with a few.”

“A few?  Someone’s getting greedy,” he clucked, and reached out to touch her jaw.  He meant for it to be just a flirtatious tap, but then he found himself brushing his thumb across her full lower lip.  Seduction was easy, a dance with familiar steps, but for some reason his heart was pounding now.

Clarke moved first.  One second she was standing next to him, his hand curving along her neck, and the next she was yanking his head down to kiss her and spinning them around so he was pinned between her hips and the table.  It was aggressive and sweet at the same time, and a tiny part of him pointed out that he was on dangerous territory.  But Clarke’s tongue was easing alongside his and he decided he didn’t care, because her hair was soft and thick and he wanted to find out what she sounded like when she moaned his name.

But she had other plans, as he discovered when she reached down and palmed him through his jeans.  “So did you mean what you said about being talkative?” she purred into his ear.  Her breath was hot and sent a shiver through him, and he had to take her face in his hands and kiss her hard to get control of the situation again.

“That was more about you than me,” he replied, and Clarke pulled away to raise an eyebrow.  

“It was about me?”

“You _are_ the one with your hand on my dick,” he countered, because _it’s always about you_ was on the tip of his tongue and he couldn’t let himself to say that.

Clarke grinned and popped the button on his jeans.  “Then I think it’s time to find out.”  She moved to kneel but he drew her back up to kiss her again, because he couldn’t get enough.  “Weren’t you going on about reciprocity before?” she teased.  “Stop worrying and enjoy yourself.  I’ll get my turn.”

“You’re goddamn right you will,” he growled, and then she was shoving his pants and boxers down to his knees and dropping between his legs.  

But that was the last coherent thing he managed to say.  She wrapped her hand around the base of his dick and flickered her tongue just underneath the tip, and he had to grab the edge of the table to keep his knees from buckling.  Her mouth was hot and wet, and his hand fluttered down to tuck back a lock of her hair. The sight of her on her knees, her blue eyes looking up at him from under her lashes while her lips encircled his cock, almost undid him completely. He had to close his eyes, scrabbling for a semblance of control.

But control was pointless, because this was _Clarke_.  He wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the day up here, letting her touch him however she wanted, having her tell him how to touch her.  It was intoxicating and would have been terrifying if he was capable of thinking, but her tongue was fluttering again and the pressure that had been building at the base of his spine since she kissed him was coming unspooled all at once.  He might have groaned her name, or maybe he just wanted to, but either way she gave him another hard suck and his cock twitched again before she let up.

This kiss was even more desperate than before and Bellamy could still taste himself on her tongue, salt and dark.  He gave up all pretense at control and lost himself in her, but then the trap door started to creak open.

“Occupied!” he called out in a strangled voice, and the door dropped shut with a clang.  

Maybe it was his imagination, but he could have sworn he heard Miller sigh before yelling back, “Next time lock the goddamn door.”

Clarke looked back at him— she’d whirled around and thrown her arms out in what was both a futile and adorable attempt to protect his honor— with a rueful smile.  He redid his pants and tried to read her expression.  “The kids’ll be noticing we’re gone,” she said eventually.  

Bellamy knew a dismissal when he heard one, but he also heard the promise in her voice.  So he made himself smirk playfully and pressed one last kiss to her lips.  “To be continued, princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course there's gonna be a part III. I know what this series is called, and I live up to my promises.


	86. On The Importance Of Cunnilingus (III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the series finally earns its title.

Bellamy felt like he was going to climb out of his skin the rest of the day.  Clarke was both too far away and not far enough, because seeing her reminded him of what he wanted to do to her. Which was, in short, everything. **  
**

But mostly, he just wanted to watch her fall apart.

Running a camp with dozens of semi-criminal teenagers was not an easy job, however, and it wasn’t until well after dinner that Bellamy felt certain he could shake off Jasper.  She’d left the fire a few minutes before, sending him a long, burning look, so he told Jasper they’d finish talking in the morning— about what, he had no idea, because he stopped listening the moment Clarke made eye contact—  and stood up.

He went to his tent first and slipped out the back, just to be sure.  Miller obviously knew, but Miller was surprisingly tight lipped considering how much gossip he managed to collect, and Bellamy figured Clarke didn’t want any more attention on her love life at the moment.

She was standing at the front entrance to her tent when he came in through the side and spun around.  “Took you long enough,” she chided, but he grabbed her arm and yanked her close, kissing her before she had a chance to get another word out.  It was a little messy, all teeth and tongues, but it also grounded him, centered him.  And that felt important, somehow.  

“I was busy,” he said as nonchalantly as possible.

“And now?”

“Now it’s your turn,” he said lowly, and watched her eyes darken.  He walked her backwards towards the pile of furs she called a bed and tugged off her shirt, letting his eyes dwell on the curve of her breasts.  He was keeping a thin veneer of control over this situation, because he realized earlier that with her, he would give up control in a heartbeat.  

Clarke pulled his own shirt off and then shrugged out of her bra.  Her breasts were even better than he imagined, and it was a good thing he didn’t quite realize that meant he’d imagined them before this week.  He thumbed at her nipple and Clarke arched into him, so he kissed the spot where her neck met her shoulder, a little more delicately than he intended.

They laid down together and he helped her out of her leggings, tossing them to the side with a dramatic flourish.  “So,” he whispered, his hand stroking up and down her side, “What you were saying the other night— is that what you like, or what you like to do?”

Clarke stopped biting her lip to give him what was supposed to be a challenging look, but he ruined it by cupping her breast in his hand and making her whine a little.  “What I like,” she said, her voice tight, and Bellamy started kissing his way down her body.  

“Don’t be shy,” he said, and laved his tongue across the hollow of her hip.  Clarke’s fingers speared through his hair as he settled onto his stomach.  He kissed the smooth skin of her inner thigh first, and her breathy laugh made him smile.  Her scent was filling his nostrils and she was already wet, her golden thatch of hair damp with want.  He spread her open, taking in the way she faded from ivory to dusky pink, and feathered his tongue across her clit.  Clarke arched from the bed and he pinned her hips down, smirking just a little.

“More,” she keened, and Bellamy lashed his tongue harder, his lips sealing around her.  She tasted sharp and sweet at once, and he knew it was something he would never forget.  Her nails scraped along his scalp as she urged him on, and he waited until she was a begging, incoherent mess before he eased a finger inside her.  Her walls clenched around him immediately and her thighs started to tremble so he eased off, slowing his licks down until she huffed impatiently.  “Bellamy, please,” she pleaded, and he stopped to kiss the curve of her stomach.

“Did you want something?” he asked, grinning up at her.  Clarke pulled him up for a kiss, licking her arousal from his lips and smiling just as broadly as he was, and then she let him move back down between her legs.  Her peak came quickly, his fingers inside of her and his tongue pressed hard against her clit.  Clarke flopped back against the furs, boneless, and let out a happy, girlish giggle.

Bellamy stayed where he was, easing her through her orgasm, and then nuzzled at her thigh for a moment before he delicately ran his tongue through her folds once more.  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Clarke laugh-moaned, but she curled her fingers into his hair again and directed him just a little higher.  He teased her less this time but kept the pressure a little lighter too, and Clarke brought her hands to her tits, massaging her nipples.  He watched her through his eyelashes when he could, and when she came her back bowed up and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Clarke used her thumb to wipe herself off his chin as he moved to kiss her again, and this time, the kiss was slow and easy and god, so good.  The desperation of earlier was gone, in it’s place something softer and maybe better.  But before he had a chance to contemplate that, someone called her name from outside the tent.

“Just a minute!” Clarke called, but her tent flap opened and Bellamy just had enough time to duck down while she threw the furs over him.  “Ursula, I said in a minute,” Clarke said, and Bellamy found himself curled next to her hip, frozen.

“Oh, sorry, were you sleeping?” Ursula asked.

“Yeah,” Clarke lied, and Bellamy grinned a little.  Her skin was warm and flushed, and he kissed the dip of her waist because it was there and he wanted to.  Clarke’s voice hitched as she told Ursula she’d be out in a minute and he was then greeted with a cold rush of air and Clarke’s slightly annoyed face when she swept the covers back down.

“Are you really complaining?” he asked quietly, and she dropped the charade.

“Thanks,” she whispered as he sat up to kiss her again.  “I needed that.  But if Ursula is out front, can you go out the way you came in?”

Even though he’d been planning on it, her implication stung. “Of course,” he said, and pulled his shirt back on.  Clarke had already stuffed her feet into her boots and she smiled at him one last time.

He made himself smile back and slipped out the side of her tent, back into the night.

 


	87. Eight Steps To Dating Your TA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @macerelle asked for bellarke and "flirtatious talk that leads nowhere." (Spoiler alert: it sort of leads somewhere here.)

I **  
**

Clarke met him— sort of— in a bar.  Heels and two full beer steins proved to be a difficult combination, and she stumbled while trying to sneak past a guy with dark, curly hair.  “Careful,” he said in a pleasantly deep voice, reaching out to steady her elbow.  She took him in— handsome, nerdy, with a jaw that could cut glass— and pondered hitting on him, but his eyes were already scanning the bar again.  He was waiting for someone, and over at their table Raven was motioning for her to hurry up, so she went on her way.

II

She learned his name when Professor Pike introduced him to her Religion and the Middle Ages class.  Bellamy Blake, _grad student and teaching assistant_.  He waved from where he sat at the front of the room— grey sweater this time, not the maroon t-shirt he’d been wearing in the bar— and stood up to introduce himself.  She smiled brightly at him and he faltered a little when his eyes swept over her, but not enough for her to tell if he remembered her or not.  Maybe he was just thrown by an undergrad showing enthusiasm.

Or maybe he thought she was hot too.  That would be an acceptable scenario.

III

Clarke _met_ him met him a few weeks into the semester, when her self-defense partner invited her home after class.  Octavia was a fun sparring partner (and definitely going to bang their instructor), and when Octavia mentioned that she lived with her grad student brother, for some reason Clarke imagined someone along the lines of Jasper.

But when she walked in and saw him sitting on the couch, a book open in his lap, her heart did something a little funny.   _I should have recognized that jawline_ , she thought, but shook his hand anyway.  He said recognized her from class but didn’t mention the bar, and it was stupid that she wished he had.  It was a nothing moment, and maybe it was just proof of how hard up she was that she thought it was more than that.

IV

She ran into him at the bar a week after that, and that time, he smiled when he saw her.  He smiled and then introduced her to Gina, his girlfriend.  Her heart sank a little at that, but Gina was pretty and nice and Clarke was just dealing with a dry spell and a stupid crush, that’s all.  She got over it.

Mostly.

V

Her midterm paper got her an A- and she considered going to his office hours and fighting it, but at the end he wrote _Really excellent argument!  Needs better citations but keep up the good work!_ in neat, block lettering and for the first time in her life, Clarke decided to let it go.

VI

Clarke should have known clubbing with Octavia would be epic, but by the end of the night she was too tired to walk the six blocks back to her apartment.  Octavia loaned her some clothes and fell asleep almost immediately, but Clarke spent a solid fifteen minutes tossing and turning next to Octavia before she decided to get up and drink some water.  She was at the awkward point halfway between sober and drunk, and she padded her way to the kitchen only to draw up short.

It’s not every day you run into your Medieval history TA, on whom you maybe have an innocent crush despite his adorable girlfriend, while wearing pajama pants that are three inches too long and a tank top that is meant for a woman with far smaller breasts.  You also generally tend to see your TA’s in jeans and sweaters, not in worn flannel pants and a white t-shirt that was just a little too tight in the shoulders.  And it’s definitely not every day that his eyes dropped to your chest before quickly averting themselves.

But that pissed Clarke off.  Because Bellamy was dating someone and maybe it was an inadvertent thing, borne of surprise at being caught in his kitchen and Octavia’s tank top being _really_  small, but still.  Ever since Finn, she had no use for guys like that— and it sucked a surprising amount to discover that Bellamy might be one of them.  Still a little drunk and feeling reckless, she crossed her arms just underneath her breasts to push them a little higher.  She wasn’t entirely sure how this would make him pay for his crimes, but she’d figure it out.  “Fancy meeting you here.”

Bellamy unfroze and finished drinking a glass of water.  “I do live here,” he said evenly, his eyes staying stubbornly above her collarbone.  

“I just wanted some water,” she said, and he moved aside to let her near the sink.  She wanted to brush against him, but Bellamy stepped away before she could.  

“So you and my sister are like…drinking friends now, huh?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Are you going to tell me if she’s dating her self-defense instructor?” he asked with half a grin.

“If she’s not telling you, there’s a reason.”

“Fair enough,” he said, his grin a little wider.  

Clarke grinned back and then remembered she was trying to make him hit on her.  For feminism, or something.  She tipped her head to the side, her nipples hard against Octavia’s flimsy tank top.  “So how’s Gina?” she asked too innocently.

Bellamy’s face fell.  “Dumped me last week, thanks for asking,” he snapped.

Clarke felt like she was deflating, and suddenly the fun went out of her little game.  “I’m sorry.  She seemed nice.”  She reached back to the couch and grabbed Octavia’s sweatshirt to pull it on, but once it was over her head she realized it smelled like cologne and not Octavia’s perfume, and the sleeves came down to cover her hands.  But taking it off would be weird, so she pretended like she didn’t notice she was now wearing Bellamy’s sweatshirt.

Bellamy shrugged.  “She was,” he said simply.  “And I’m not.”

“Come on,” Clarke said and wrapped her arms around her middle.  “You’re nice.  You gave me an A- on the midterm paper, even though I clearly pulled at least one citation from wikipedia.”  

Bellamy half-groaned, half laughed.  “You at least didn’t cite Wikipedia itself.  Which is impressive.”

“So what you’re saying is I have this in the bag?”

“What I’m saying is Pike is going to have to grade your final, since we’re in my kitchen at two in the morning and you’re wearing my sweatshirt.”

“Does it change things if I say I thought it was O’s?” 

“He’s supposed to do thirty percent of the grading anyway and I do it all, so he won’t complain too much.  Plus, he’s probably less picky than I am, so I’m probably doing you a favor in the long run.”

“In that case, I’m keeping this,” Clarke said, and in a distant corner of her brain she registered that she was legitimately flirting with him, and not just baiting him.

“If you puke on it, just wash it before you give it back.”

“Who said anything about giving it back?” she said and sauntered out of the kitchen before he managed to respond.

VII

It was that awkward time of year where the air conditioning had been turned on but it wasn’t consistently warm enough to quite need it, which meant lecture halls were freezing.  Pike was droning on in the front about someone named Hildegard of Bingen, who did sound pretty badass but Clarke’s attention was elsewhere.  Bellamy was sitting at the front of the room on the opposite side  from her, and every few minutes his eyes darted up in her direction.  The first time he smiled swiftly, as if embarrassed to be making eye contact, but he kept glancing back like he couldn’t help himself.

Clarke waited until he looked away and rummaged through her bag to grab the sweatshirt.  It still smelled a little bit like him— and maybe she liked that a little too much— and she pulled it over her head and fluffed her hair out from where it was trapped in the hood.  A minute later Bellamy flicked his eyes back towards her and then did a double take.  She slunk down in her chair, brought the neck up to her nose, and smiled.

A shy grin flashed across his face before he looked back down at his notebook and the moment passed.

VIII

“You still have my sweatshirt,” Bellamy said in her ear, and Clarke almost spilled her beer.  She hadn’t seen him since she turned in her final paper a few weeks ago, a fact which bothered her more than she wanted to admit.

She whirled around to face him.  “I told you, I’m keeping it.”

“It’s June in Virginia.  I don’t think you need a sweatshirt anymore,” he said, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.  At the same time, his eyes raked over her and she suppressed a little shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature.

“Then maybe I’ll come over some time.  Return it,” she said, taking a slow slip and watching his reaction.  Octavia had left town for the summer— Bellamy had to know that she knew that.

“You know where I’ll be,” he said and touching her arm rather unnecessarily he moved past her back into the crowded bar.

“Bellamy!” she called and rolled up on her toes even though he was already looking back at her, and it’s not like that would help him see her any better.  He waited with an expectant look and she tipped her chin towards him.  “I’ll come by tomorrow night?”

His smile was a sight to behold.  “It’s a date, princess.”


	88. Piano Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because yesterday I was like "remember that countdown photo of Bellamy playing the piano last season? I feel like writing a ficlet inspired by that."

Clarke didn’t sleep well these days.  It was rare that she made it all the way through a night without waking up in a panic, and once she was awake it took hours to fall back asleep.  Sometimes she didn’t even bother and just got up to wander the halls of Arkadia in the small hours of the morning.  They didn’t have much time left, after all. **  
**

She trailed her fingers along the cold, metal wall as she walked and in the distance she heard a soft, melodic sound. She drew closer to the mess hall and the quiet _plink_ of piano keys grew more distinct.  It was halting, like the musician was trying to remember the notes, but she recognized the melody— a lullaby, old and sad.  

Clarke wasn’t surprised to find Bellamy in the mess hall— he slept just as poorly as she did— but she was surprised to find him at the piano, his blunt fingers searching out the keys.  “I didn’t know you played,” she said as she walked across the deserted hangar.

“I don’t,” he said without looking up.  “Not really.”  He shifted automatically and Clarke sat down next to him.  “Gina taught me,” he said after a moment of silence.

 _Gina_.  Bellamy hadn’t talked about her; not to Clarke.  That night at Niylah’s Clarke had heard Raven sneer _you were never that devoted to Gina_ , and wondered what that meant.  Who was she, and why did her name make Bellamy look so stricken?  At the time she thought they had years together, plenty of time to let wounds heal before they revisited them.  But now their days on earth were ticking past with alarming quickness and it felt like a goddamn tragedy, because there was still so much about him she wanted to know.  

“How did she learn?” she asked, and placed her finger on a white key.  A note rang out, high and sweet.

“Her grandmother taught her on a datapad.  She wasn’t very good, but she was better than me,” he said with a sad smile.  “She told me to try and listen to the music in my head, and I had to admit I didn’t have any.”

Clarke touched a black key this time, it’s sharp sound just a little lower.  “Lexa tried to teach me to throw a spear once,” she said, because if this was all they had— stolen moments while the end of the world marched ever closer— she would share it with him.  And that meant honesty, even though the mere thought of Lexa brought a lump to her throat.

“That sounds about right,” he said drily, and Clarke smiled a little.

“I was pretty good, I’ll have you know,” she teased gently.

“Never said you weren’t,” he replied, his own grin just a bit brighter.  He played a chord but stopped when she leaned her head on his shoulder.  He draped his arm around her and pressed his cheek to the top of her head.  

“The world is ending, Bellamy,” she said quietly.  “And I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“Me either,” Bellamy admitted.  “But together, right?”

Clarke shifted to press against him more closely.  It didn’t fix anything, but it helped.  “Together,” she echoed.


	89. She'll Be Okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @museumofflight, who wanted Abby watching some bellarke wound tending.

Abby checked her pack against the list on the desk one last time.  Clarke’s team was due home soon and the rover back to Polis was leaving right after so she wouldn’t have time to rectify it if she missed anything.  The healers in Polis were good, but there just wasn’t a powerful enough substitute for synthetic morphine, in her opinion.  But she’d cleared what she could spare from medical an hour ago, and now with her last few meagre possessions packed up from her old compartment, she was ready.  Marcus was waiting. **  
**

“Abby?” Jackson said from the door, and with one look at his face her stomach dropped.  There was only one reason he would be looking at her with that mixture of apprehension and concern.  She shoved him out of the way and took off at a run while Jackson stumbled back.  “She’s okay!” he yelled, but Abby knew that couldn’t be the whole story.

 _Clarke is hurt._  Her mind cycled around that thought while she ran, her wedding ring thumping a soft tattoo against her breastbone with each step.  She darted down the long corridor that led to medical, Jackson still calling after her.  Abby had gotten used to so much down on the ground, but Clarke— she still couldn’t let go of the constant worry.  The world might be ending, but right now, her daughter was hurt and that was all that mattered.

Abby burst into medical at a dead sprint but drew up short because there, on an exam table, sat Clarke.  She wasn’t pale or in obvious pain, and Abby performed a quick scan of her body to ascertain that nothing was bleeding or obviously broken.  She had a gash on her upper arm, long and ugly but not deep or wide enough to need stitches.

Bellamy was sitting on a stool in front of Clarke, his dark head bent over her wound.  His hand held her arm delicately but firmly, his face a mask of concentration.  “You can stop cleaning it now,” Clarke said drily.  She looked up and gave Abby a half smile.  “Hi mom,” she said in that same amused tone.  “I told Jackson to tell you I was okay.”

“I did,” Jackson said from behind her, breathless.  “She didn’t listen.”

Bellamy had picked up a bandage and was winding it around her arm.  “Tighter,” Clarke instructed.

“Any tighter and I’ll cut off your circulation,” Bellamy grumbled, and Clarke bit her lips to stop a smile.  The way she was looking at him made Abby’s heart twist and curl, because that mixture of fondness and trust— and exasperation— spoke volumes.

“We have a long way to go before we get to that point,” Clark teased, and now it was Abby’s turn to swallow a smile.  

The world was ending, but for now, Clarke was okay.


	90. The Perils of Victorian Underwear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @kay-emm-gee asked for a bellarke timeless au.

Clarke slipped her gun back into her thigh holster and straightened her skirt.  “I hope Cage goes to the 1950s next,” she grumbled.  “I’m sick of Victorian underwear.” **  
**

“Technically, it’s Edwardian,” Bellamy said distractedly as they trudged through the forest.  He looked around, his dark eyes darting back and forth.  “Well, we’re post-Edwardian now, but I’m pretty sure the clothes are called Edwardian until we hit the 1920s.  And I really don’t think you’re going to enjoy the girdles of the 1950s, so be careful what you wish for,” he said.  Gunfire sounded in the distance and he stopped, once again peering through the trees.

“Whatever, I’m just sick of this nurse outfit.  But we did what we had to do and Raven will be waiting, so let’s get going.”

Bellamy frowned and then shook his head.  “There’s one more thing we have to do.”

“The mission was—”

“I know what the mission was,” he said.  “This isn’t the mission.  But it’s something we have to do.”

Clarke crossed her arms and wished her partner-in-time-travel wasn’t so fucking handsome in his 1917 military uniform.  It’d be a lot easier to say no to him if she didn’t want to kiss him every time his forehead did that wrinkle thing like it was doing now.  “So what do we have to do?”

Bellamy pulled a gun she didn’t even know he had from his pocket.  “Kill someone.”

Clarke’s eyes went wide.  Bellamy had spent the last six months hissing in her ear about the importance of preserving history, even in the face of calamity.  And now he decided he wanted to play assassin.  “No,” she said flatly.  “We completed the mission.  We’re going home.”

“Then you’re going home without me, because I’m doing this.”  He looked determined, focused.  God, he was hot.  

“Why?  And who are you planning to kill, by the way?  There’s no one important here, you said so yourself.”

Bellamy’s jaw flickered.  “I was wrong.  He’s not important now, but— look, you don’t have to do this.  Go back to Raven, tell her I got delayed.  Just let me handle it and then we can leave, I promise.”

“Like hell I’m leaving you behind,” she retorted.  Bellamy’s eyes flashed with worry and she knew he was thinking about their last mission and the night she admitted she hated killing.  She would do it to save…time, or history, or whatever it was they were doing on this team, but she loathed it with every fiber of her being.  So of course he would offer to do it in her stead, but if Bellamy wanted to kill someone, there had to be a reason.  “Who is it, Bellamy?”

“Hitler.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Adolf Hitler.   _The_ Adolf Hitler.  He’s…here?”

“That’s his regiment stationed over those hills.  I knew he served in the war, but I didn’t know he’d be here until we intercepted that communique about the Austro-Hungarian troops.”

Clarke stared at him in amazement.  “Do you think— do you think it’ll change things?”

Bellamy shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I don’t think so, actually— someone else could easily take his place.  The Nazi party was more than just him; it wasn’t like he personally brainwashed an entire country, and he didn’t actually murder anyone himself.  He just made it possible for it to happen, but I figure…fuck it, what’s the harm?  I take him out, maybe we save millions of lives.  And if it happens anyway, well….still, fuck Hitler.”

A smile quirked at the corner of her lips and Bellamy’s lips did the same.  Clarke pulled out her gun and cocked it.  “Then let’s go kill Hitler.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, that is a Doctor Who shout out at the end).


	91. Oblivion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy/Luna, with background bellarke angst.

It’s been three days and already people are calling her a ghost.  Luna walks the halls with the expression of one already dead while everyone else scurries around to prepare for a storm that will destroy them all anyway.  Sometimes she joins in the preparations— she’s good at skinning rabbits— but mostly she just walks, observing the flurry of activity as if she’s separated from them by a thick pane of glass. **  
**

Bellamy understands how she feels because he feels it too, even though he’s one of the ants she’s watching, moving from one task to the next even though it’s utterly pointless.  Everyone else is still clinging to a thin line of hope, working for a future he knows won’t arrive.  If he stops they’ll know, so he keeps moving even though every day it gets a little harder to go on.

They have two months left.  Two months, and he knows what he wants and he knows it’s not enough time.  Clarke’s grief is still there, carefully hidden but not from him— he knows her too well now, and he knows it’s too soon. And _I’ve loved you for so long I don’t even know when it began_ means betraying Gina, as if he hasn’t done that enough already.  It feels like penance and justice, to finally understand he loves her and know he can’t ever say it, because the monsters in storybooks don’t get happy endings.

It’s raining out.  Regular rain, not the black rain that will soon scour the earth, and when he walks into his compartment he finds Luna stand at his window watching.  

“I never gave this back,” she says, and holds out the scrap of white cloth he’d given her in med bay.

“Keep it,” he shrugs, but she makes no move to leave.

“They think they can survive it,” she observes.  “But you don’t.”  The Ark is deathly quiet for once but he still checks over his shoulder to make sure no one over heard.

“I don’t know for sure,” he hedges.

“You don’t.”  She says it bluntly, and there’s an odd loosening in his chest.

For once, he doesn’t have to lie.  “No,” he admits.  “But I can’t just give up.”

Luna casts a look at him out of the corner of her eye but says nothing.  He joins her at the window and watches the rain beat down.  Four months ago he would have rejoiced— their meagre crops needed the water, and Gina loved the rain.

Now he feels nothing, because there’s nothing left to feel.

Luna turns to face him and the grief etched into her strikes him deep down in his core.  “If I had taken the flame could I have stopped this?”

“No,” he says.  “No one could have.”  She nods and they lapse back into silence.  “I’m sorry.”  His voice cracks a little on the last word because she’s alone now, and he knows how that feels.  He spent two years like that, two years with no family and no one to blame for that but himself.  He’s alone now too, but at least that’s his choice.  Without thinking he weaves his fingers together with hers and she squeezes his hand almost instinctively.

She turns to face him, and it’s all wrong.  She’s tall and that reminds him of Gina, but her curls aren’t the same.  She’s not Gina and she’s not Clarke, but the way she’s looking at him…he’s not who she wants either.  He thinks back to the rig and remembers the way she giggled at Derrick, the easy way her smile came whenever he was around.

Luna licks her lips and her eyes drop to his, but there’s no hunger there— or at least not hunger for him.  She wants oblivion, and he knows how it feels to want that.  His hand comes to curl around the nape of her neck and he raises his eyebrows.

She nods.

He kisses her, and it’s wrong but also right.  Her curls are soft and springy under his hands but the wrong color, and when he kisses her neck she closes her eyes and turns away he doesn’t blame her.

She pushes him back to his bed— the bed he doesn’t sleep in anymore, not really— and they clumsily shed their clothes.  It feels good to have her skin against his, her lips trailing across his chest, and when he slips his hands between her folds she lets out a soft sigh that could almost be content.  She comes quietly, a gentle wave rolling through her, and then she rolls him to his back to sink down on him.

She kisses him, her nipples hard where she’s pressed against him, and it feels desperate.  He’s desperate too, because when she’s kissing him he’s not thinking about the end of the world.  He’s not thinking about what he’s lost and what he can’t have— he’s not thinking at all, just feeling her skin and tasting her lips and losing himself inside her.

Luna stills when he comes, her hands coming to brush the hair back from his forehead and hold his face, her kiss soft and kind.  She leans back and he runs his hand up her side unconsciously, still needing to touch someone, her skin like silk under his fingers.  It’s grounding him and letting him fly away inside himself all at once, and she looks over towards their clothes and his heart lurches with something like panic.

“Stay,” he says, and he didn’t mean for it to sound like a plea but it does.

Luna looks down at him, those dark brown eyes unreadable, but she rearranges herself until she is pressed against his side and her legs are tangled with his.  He shifts and guides her head to his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the top of her head in thanks.  He can feel her heart beating and for a moment he remembers that the end is coming.  But her body is warm, so he lets himself feel that and pushes the fear aside.

They’re alone, but for now they can be alone together.


	92. Morning sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @verbam asked for lazy morning bellarke sex. I was drunk when I wrote this, so no promises on quality.

Something soft touches her shoulder, and it takes Clarke a few seconds to surface and realize it’s Bellamy mouthing at her skin, sleepy and mussed just like her.  She shifts and her ass presses against his cock and her body starts to wake.  Bellamy’s hand drifts to her hip, holding her in place so he can grind against her, and Clarke twists her head back to kiss him.  It’s sloppy, her mouth only half meeting his lips, but it doesn’t matter.  She’s fully awake now, her body already aching for him.   **  
**

Bellamy pulls her hips back and slides his cock between her thighs, the tip bumping into her clit at just the right angle.  She never bothered to put her panties on last night, a fact she’s grateful for when his cock thrusts forward again, her wetness easing the way.  She gasps, a puff of air against his lips, and Bellamy nudges her to her stomach.  Clarke accidentally knocks her pillow to the floor and buries her face in the mattress, biting back an impatient groan.  Telling Bellamy to _just get on with it_ usually leads to agonizing minutes of teasing touches that are _almost_ what she needs but _not quite._  And what she needs right now is for him to fuck her, so she opens her legs and lets Bellamy shove her shirt— his shirt, actually— up a little higher around her stomach.

He’s heavy on top of her, but it’s a good heavy, a grounding weight that makes her feel encompassed and loved and wanted, and then he nudges her knee up just a little farther to open her up for him.  His hands curl around hers as he eases inside of her and Clarke turns her face so she can breathe, his cock filling her.

Like always, he waits just a heartbeat too long.  Bellamy likes to hear her moan before he starts to thrust, and even though he can’t get deep like this it feels so right, so perfect, that she’s keening in minutes.  His breath fans her neck and he kisses her jaw, his hips moving against her ass as he pushes in and pulls out, the movement making her clit drag against the sheets.  It’s easy and good and Clarke shoves her face into the mattress when she starts to rise, the need inside of her coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust.

When she comes it’s like a wave cresting and crashing on the shore while another one builds inside of her.  Clarke trembles and Bellamy grunts, hoarse and close, and then he’s swelling and letting go inside of her, hot and hard and perfect.

Clarke relaxes, melting into the bed, and Bellamy pulls out so he can lift himself off of her and lay down next to her, his face on the mattress just inches away.  “Morning,” she says, and he laughs.

It’s the best thing she’s ever heard.


	93. Deucalion Farms (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Farmer!Bellamy, and yes, there’s a part II on its way. Snaps to @reblogginhood for the name, and dedicated to the ladies who inspired this little series.

Bellamy can’t help it— he’s a farmer’s market purist.  Farmer’s markets should be for fruits, vegetables, flowers, and maybe a stand or two of honey and beeswax products.  It’s right there in the name, after all: _farmer’s_ market.  It’s a market for farmers, and bringing in things like jewelry booths and artisan weavers just clutters everything up and brings in hipsters who claim to want farm-to-table produce but then expect him to have tomatoes six weeks after the season is over.  Octavia (if she bothered to listen to his rants anymore) would probably point out that it brings in more customers and more customers are probably a good thing, but he didn’t care. **  
**

So when the Arkadia Collective set up next to his stall, he got annoyed.  And as Miller was fond of pointing out, Annoyed Bellamy was a jackass.  Even the fact that the Collective appeared to be entirely staffed by attractive people his age did not dissuade him from being irritated at their very presence, so naturally on the first day of the season he snapped at the blonde woman who asked if he could help her manage a tent pole.  “I’m a little busy here,” he grumped, and Miller rolled his eyes and went over.

“Don’t mind him; he just hates people.  And places, and things.  He’s like the worst parts of April Ludgate and Ron Swanson combined,” Miller said and Bellamy narrowed his eyes at the lettuce in the back of his truck.  She laughed, and he was even more annoyed to find he liked the sound, and thus began the worst summer of his life.

Her name was Clarke and she was an _artist_.  Which was bad enough, except she was a _good_ artist and Octavia bought a bracelet from her and then Lincoln spent a whole morning lurking in her booth, talking to her about her _process_.  And look, Bellamy liked art.  It had a place in the world and he understood that meant that some people would dedicate their lives to it, but he had a knee-jerk resentment towards anything that felt like privilege.  And _I want to make beautiful things_ felt like the sort of thing you would only choose if you hadn’t ever worried about where your next meal was coming from.

So he did his best not to be a dick to her, but mostly he failed.  “Deucalion Farms?  What does that mean?” she asked their fourth saturday, a smile that might have been teasing on her lips.

“It means what it means,” he grumbled, because Octavia already made fun of his history-nerd tendencies enough— he didn’t need her doing it too.  Clarke looked taken aback (which he did feel bad about; he was just so bad at deciding when people were genuinely interested and when they were mocking him that he usually just assumed the latter and went on offense) and after that, she never bothered to make polite conversation with him again.  Which sucked, because when she did talk to Miller or her customers, she seemed smart and funny and like the sort of person he’d like to get to know.  But he’d screwed up twice and people like him didn’t get second chances, much less third ones, so he chalked it up to a lost cause and sank deeper into his Pretty-Artist-induced funk.

It was a bright Saturday in late June when Kane stopped by his stall.  Clarke wasn’t around that day— Luna was selling her scarves from their booth instead— so he was in a marginally less grumpy mood.  The County Commissioner shook his hand with a genial smile that Bellamy returned.  “Haven’t seen you at a meeting in a while,” Kane said.  “Abby, this is Bellamy— he owns a farm down Highway 13.

Bellamy nodded to the woman next to him who bent over a basket of blackberries, her brown braid swinging forward over her shoulder.  She looked vaguely familiar, especially when she wrinkled her forehead in contemplation.  “As long as you’re not planning on widening the road anymore, I’ve got better things to do with my time,” Bellamy chuckled.  He and Kane hadn’t gotten off to the best start— Bellamy might have called him a fascist during a particularly heated meeting about the road— but he had come to admire him.  

“Maybe we’ll put it back on the agenda, if only to get you involved again,” Kane teased.  “I heard you were in asking about permits last week?”

Abby picked up a basket of berries and motioned to it with a still-uncomfortably-familiar smile.  “I was thinking of doing some renovations, yeah,” Bellamy said, accepting her cash and counting out change.  He stuffed the bills into his cash box and flipped it shut with a snap.  “Heating that house costs a fortune in the winter— I want to see if I there’s anything I can do to bring that down, but I don’t know what I can afford yet.”

Abby piped up for the first time.  “My daughter does green design— I’m sure she’d be willing to do a consultation for you, if you’d like; give you an idea of what’s possible and what it would cost.”

“That’d be great, yeah,” he said, and Abby fished around in her purse to find a business card.   _Griffin Design_ , it said, with a logo of a tree and an email address and a phone number in tiny script at the bottom.  He curled his hand around it and slipped it into his half apron.

He’d call her tomorrow, whoever she was.


	94. Deucalion Farms (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @reblogginhood for Bellamy's tattoo, which means "steady work overcomes all things."

_farmer_blake@gmail.com: **  
**_

_I am in the market for some renovations/upgrades to an 1910 farmhouse and heard you might be the person to talk to— is that true?  And if so, how much will a consult cost?_

_–B_

_griffindesigns@gmail.com:_

_Definitely true!  I can do a consult later this week, assuming you’re in the area.  Consults are free and I give you a print out with my suggestions within four business days, complete with price ranges._

_–C_

_farmer_blake@gmail.com:_

_Would Thursday afternoon work?  I’m at 1793 Highway 13.  It’s the white house with green shutters.  Big red barn.  Can’t miss it._

_–B_

_griffindesigns@gmail.com:_

_Thursday at 2pm works for me.  See you then!_

_–C_

At a little after noon on Thursday, Bellamy headed back to the orchard.  There’d been a sudden squall the night before and there were leaves and branches everywhere, including several that were broken but still clinging to the trunks.  If he didn’t get them down now, they’d risk damaging other branches and then come fall he’d have fewer apples for hipsters to pick on the weekends.  He dragged his ladder and chainsaw with him and set an alarm on his phone so he would have enough time to get back to the house and shower before Marcus’ girlfriend’s daughter showed up.

Truth be told, Bellamy genuinely liked farming.  Sometimes he day-dreamed about doing something else— something that didn’t involve being at the mercy of the weather, maybe something like teaching— but he enjoyed the solitude.  He liked the feeling of dirt under his nails and he liked knowing he was going food for people to eat.  Octavia and Miller liked to say it was his way of being everyone’s mom, including those he didn’t know, and maybe they were right. Either way, he liked it. 

Bellamy moved down the line of apple trees, scanning each one for dangling branches that needed to be trimmed before they cracked completely and brought down even more of his crop.   _At least it wasn’t hail,_ he thought to himself, and set down his chainsaw.  The last tree in the row had just a few that needed to be cut, and they were small enough he could manage with his clippers.  But it was probably getting close to two, and he needed to go meet…well, he never did get her name.  Abby’s daughter.  He checked his phone and swore, because he’d missed the alarm and now it was two, which meant he couldn’t shower.  Hopefully she’d be just a little behind schedule and he could change before she arrived.  He pulled off his safety goggles (there was no way he was losing an eye to a wood chip) and threw them on the grass next to the chainsaw and peeled his white shirt off.  He was sticky with sweat and more than a little annoyed with himself for losing track of time, so he wiped his face with his shirt and turned to head back to the house.

But there, in mirrored sunglasses that hid most of her face, was _Clarke_.  “What the hell are you doing here?” The words were out of his mouth before he even realized he was saying them, and she clicked her tongue in annoyance.

“You gave me your address.  Clarke Griffin, Griffin Designs.”  She crossed her arms and tipped her head to the side, waiting.

“How did you get back here?”

“I managed to skirt your high level security system,” she replied wryly.  “By which I mean, I heard the chainsaw and hopped the fence.  I was a little early, and I didn’t know it was _you_.”

He could tell she was considering leaving— and he wouldn’t blame her— so he stuffed his annoyance at being caught off-guard by her back down and tried again.  “I’m sorry, I lost track of time.”  

Clarke swallowed and then nodded.  “So am I giving you a consult on weatherproofing this orchard, or should we go to the house?”

Bellamy motioned towards the fence and they fell into step beside each other.  “Sorry, can we start over?” he blurted after about five seconds of uncomfortable silence.  “I was a dick to you.”

“Which time?”

“All of them?” he said, and her shoulders softened a little.  She looked his way and he realized he still had to put on his shirt, but then she glance his way again— almost as if she was stealing a second look— and he decided to wait just a little bit longer.

“Nice tattoo,” she said.   _Labor omnia vicit improbus_ was written down the inside of his bicep and when he looked at her he noticed a splotch of red just under her ear, crawling down her neck.  He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, but when they reached the back porch he pulled his shirt back on.  Leaving it off at this point would be a little too obvious, he reasoned. 

Once he was redressed Clarke pushed her sunglasses up to the top of her head and pulled out her phone.  “So what’s your goal?  Zero carbon footprint, or just like…lower heating bills?”  Bellamy studied her profile for a beat too long, and then it was his turn to blush when she raised her eyebrows.  “Well?” she asked expectantly, and he shook his head a little to clear it.

Once he got over it being Clarke, she was pretty easy to talk to.  They walked through the house and she snapped pictures, asking him questions about how he used rooms and what was most important to him, and suddenly an hour had passed and they were standing in his foyer, chatting about the hassle of getting permits for the Farmer’s Market.  “I mean, Marcus is dating my mom— you’d think that would make it easier for me but nooooo, I still had to fill out like, six different forms,” she concluded with a laugh.  She glanced at the grandfather clock over his shoulder and startled.  “Shit, I have to be getting back to the office— I have a meeting with a contractor about another project in a half hour.  I’ll send this to you early next week, but I think we can work something out.”

Bellamy let her out of the front door and followed her to her car, a surprisingly old hatchback.  “I’ll see you Saturday?” he asked, and his heart was pounding loud enough he was a little concerned she might hear it.

Clarke smiled and he had to look away in case he blushed again.  “I’ll see you there,” she said, and he closed the door for her and watched her drive away in a rumble of gravel and a cloud of dust.

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear, and on an impulse he poured a second travel mug of coffee before he hopped into his pickup.  Clarke was busy setting up her display as he backed into his assigned stall, but she looked up— hopefully, maybe?– when he slammed his door.  “I brought you some coffee,” he mumbled, and their fingers brushed when she accepted the cup.  He curled his hand into a fist and forced himself to make eye contact with her.  “I didn’t know if you like it black or not, but—”

“–this is good,” she interrupted, and they stood there smiling stupidly at each other until Miller walked up and asked Bellamy what to unload first.  He turned to start helping Miller with the crates and caught her watching him out of the corner of his eye.  He hefted one into his arms and Clarke fumbled, almost dropping her coffee before turning firmly away to finish setting up her booth.

He was still officially a farmer’s market purist, but he was okay with making an exception every now and then.


	95. Sharing the Burden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by something reblogginhood said on the Meta Station podcast for 403.

He didn’t even realize he’d fallen asleep.

The chancellor’s office was quieter than his compartment, a bit farther from the generators that hummed night and day, and the couch was softer as the cot he’d been assigned.  He sat down as Clarke pulled out the list of work assignments for the next day, and by the time they hit breaking the out the hunting groups into smaller parties his eyes had grown heavy.  He swung his feet up on the couch and mumbled something about _making sure I don’t fall asleep_ that had Clarke making a soft snort in response, and that was the last thing he remembered.

At first, he wasn’t sure what woke him— maybe the silence.  He didn’t sleep much these days, but he’d let himself relax despite everything.  It was quiet here, and safe.  

(How much of that was because of Clarke he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.)

Then he heard her sniffle and without even looking, he knew what she’d done while he was asleep.  He wasn’t surprised— he probably would have done the same thing himself.

That was what they did, after all.  From the day she stumbled upon him and Atom in the woods and took the knife out of his hands, they’d done this for each other.  For sixteen years he’d shouldered a burden alone and then in one horrible afternoon it all changed.  He wasn’t alone anymore, not with her.  Not even when she was gone.  And even now, with everything, she was still trying to protect him, trying to keep him from having to sentence their friends to death.

Bellamy rolled off the couch and she wiped at her tears, but not because she was hiding.  Because she was trying to shield him from her pain, just like he tried to shield her.  

So he did what they always did— he made it easier for her.  She didn’t want to die, but she wouldn’t accept living at the cost of someone else.  But Clarke would never let him die, so he used that to give her a reason to live.  Deep down, he knew it didn’t matter.  This was too big, even for Raven.  But Clarke hadn’t given up yet so he let her believe he hadn’t either.  If it gave her hope, if it kept her going for a few more months, he could do it.  He could tell her he believed in a future he knew they would never get to see.  

Bellamy reached out and touched her shoulder.  He wanted to do more— wipe the tears from her cheeks, hold her while she took deep, shaky breaths, let her curl into his chest— but that felt too big.  She rested her cheek on his wrist, her tears wet and her skin flushed, and then Bellamy made himself walk away.

It was the least he could do.


	96. Hufflepuff vs. Slytherin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday to @bgonemydear!

“You ready for the match, Blake?” a familiar voice purred.  Slytherin’s star beater rested her hip against the doorjamb, a mocking smile on her face. **  
**

The rest of the team stiffened but Bellamy waved them on ahead.  “Bring it, Griffin,” he said.  “Monroe, I’ll see you out here for seeker drills tomorrow after Potions,” he instructed.

“Like hell I’m leaving you alone with her; she could sabotage something,” Monroe snarled.  

Clarke looked down at her nails, completely unconcerned.  “We don’t have to resort to cheap tricks to beat Hufflepuff,” she laughed.  “We could beat you with half our team off sick.”

“Yeah, well—”

“Monroe, I’ve got this,” he interrupted, because Monroe was going for her wand and she was good, but Clarke was deadly.  “Good practice, everyone,” he said with finality.  “We’re ready to face a bunch of privileged arseholes who couldn’t find their way to the pitch with a map.”

Clarke made a face at him and watched his team file out.  The door to the locker room swung shut and silence swelled for a second, and then she was striding across the room to tangle her fingers in his har.  “I thought you said you’d be finished by six,” she whined and dragged his lips down for a kiss.

Bellamy smoothed her blonde hair back and pulled away.  “No, I said we’d finish around six,” he corrected.  “You were supposed to wait by the forest until you saw the team leave.”

Clarke’s hands slipped under his robes and sought out bare skin.  “I thought the team had already left,” she argued.  “And _privileged arseholes_?  Really?  That’s the best you could do?”

Bellamy spun them around and pressed her against the wall.  “Did you want to fight?  Or do this?” he asked, and kissed the spot just below her ear.

“Both?” she laughed, and he wondered how they’d gotten here— from mortal enemies to…this.  Two months ago it was just snogging in deserted rooms and after practice.  Thy hated each other and they liked kissing and he didn’t think it was really particularly complicated, especially as long as they kept it a secret.  But at some point things had changed; their barbs had become playful and three weeks ago he realized his favorite sound in the world was her laugh.  But her mouth was opening under his and her skin was hot to the touch, so he’d figure that bit out later.  


	97. Sleeping with the Enemy (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II to chapter 64.

Fucking in a bathroom at a post- Oscars party was maybe the most Hollywood thing Bellamy had ever done.  It wasn’t his style, especially not on a work night,  but Clarke Griffin had an unfortunate hold over him. **  
**

Clarke’s hand slapped down over his on the countertop and he pushed even deeper inside her.  She was drawing circles on her clit with her other hand, the moans falling from her lips getting higher and higher.  Her breath fanned against his neck and he nipped at her shoulder, tasting her skin and sweat.  Her heels were digging into the backs of his thighs and he was losing control, so she grabbed his face and kissed him just as they both tipped over the edge together.

She giggled a little as he pulled out.  “You could have called,” she teased.

“Technically, you were the competition,” he replied, and threw the condom into the trashcan.  He helped her down from the counter and she straightened her dress, pulling down the hem and tugging up the neckline so her breasts were no longer spilling out.

“And technically, you won,” Clarke pointed out.  “He got the part.”

“Felt unsporting,” he said with a shrug and she laughed.  Truth be told, he had considered calling her several times because while the sex had been great, it was how he felt around her that had stuck with him.  She was easy to talk to, and even after he realized her mother was the bane of his existence he missed her.  More than he should miss a random one night stand, really.

He had been considering pretending he didn’t see her at the party, but she caught his eye and winked, and that was all it took.  He followed her to the bathroom and now here they were, sweaty and disheveled.

Her lips were swollen from his kisses and he wanted nothing more than to grab her hand and go hail a cab.  He’d take her home and they’d have sex again— in a bed, this time— and then tomorrow morning she’d wear his shirt while he cooked pancakes and it would be like one of those movies Octavia used to book before she went full action hero.  But he had studio execs to butter up, because Oscar night was about striking when the iron was hot, and nobody was hotter than Charles Pike tonight.  Clarke checked her reflection in the mirror and reapplied her lipstick.  “Tell Charles we say congrats, by the way,” she said, and her mouth curved into something like a smile.  

“Tell your mom tough loss,” he said.  It had been a stacked category this year, and while he was thrilled for Raven, he had to admit that Abigail’s turn as a nineteenth century widow fighting to keep her family together had been searing.

Clarke gave her bright green dress one last tug.  “I’m sticking around LA for awhile,” she said, and flipped the lock on the door.   She peeked out and looked back at him one last time.  “You should call me this time,” she said, and then she was gone.


	98. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the sneak peek for 405 of Bellamy looking sadly at Clarke.

Bellamy waits until Clarke and Roan are hidden from view before he glances over at Echo.  It still hurts to look at her– she’s taken so much from him, and the sight of her is like a knife to his gut.   _Octavia, Octavia, Octavia, she killed Octavia_  his brain chants, as if he could ever forget.  She sees him and slides down from her horse against the protests of the rest of the guard.  

Kane watches warily as Echo approaches them, but she pays him no mind.  “Make it quick,” Bellamy says when she’s close enough.

 “Wanheda is not going to let you die,” she says, but before she would have said it with a sneer instead of resignation.  Her bravado from the throne room is gone, replaced by something that is probably regret, but he doesn’t give a damn how she feels. 

Kane tries to interrupt, but if Bellamy looks at him he’ll lose his composure so he keeps his eyes on the woman who murdered his sister.  “I know,” he says, and it’s strange how much he’s realized now that he’s lost everything.  He loves Clarke and she loves him, but if she chooses him over their people they’ll both be dead in days anyway.  “Which is why you’re going to kill me before she has to make a choice.” Kane makes a noise like a sob and Bellamy swallows hard.  His hands are shaking so he balls them into fists.  “You owe me, Echo,” he says, and he means for it to sound like a command but instead his voice breaks, because _Octavia is gone._ There’s only one thing left for him to do, and that’s die before Clarke has to make a choice that will break her.

Slowly, Echo nods.  “You have my word,” she says, and something inside of him wants to laugh because once she asked him if he could ever trust her.

And now he does.


	99. Your Chariot Awaits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anon request for bellarke and dancing.

Clarke smiled to herself as the DJ blended the slow song into a faster one, and watched Raven take Wells’ hand and convince him to stay on the dance floor.  She had told Wells Raven would have gone to prom with him, but he’d been too chicken to ask.  So Clarke agreed to be his date, but only on the condition that he ask Raven to dance at least once in the first hour.  With her mission accomplished she snagged a plate of brownies from the snack table and headed to one of the small tables on the edge of the dance floor to sit down. **  
**

She was considering just taking off her shoes and leaning into the whole wallflower thing when someone spoke up from behind her.  “Not dancing, princess?”

Clarke did a double take, because _Bellamy Blake_ was at _prom_.  “Just taking a break,” she said.

Bellamy pushed off the wall and stole a brownie from her plate.  “I figured this would be your scene,” he said, and tipped his head out to where the rest of their classmates were writhing around.

Clarke peered up at him and noted the tie underneath his leather jacket.  “I mostly just came so Wells would,” she admitted.  This was surreal— Bellamy Blake was at _prom_ , casually striking up a conversation with her, like they were friends who chatted at dances instead of complete strangers.  She quickly ran through what she knew about him, but it wasn’t much.  Rumors, mostly, although she was reasonably sure he really had tried to quit school last year to get a full-time job, since Roan had said some kid with a fake ID had shown up at his bar, begging to be hired.  “What brings you here?” she asked.

Bellamy shrugged and then sank into a chair next to her, pinching off the corner of another brownie.  “Keeping an eye on O,” he said, and Clarke followed his gaze to where his sister was grinding on Lincoln.

Clarke bit back a smile.  “Lincoln’s good people,” she assured him, and Bellamy pressed his lips together in annoyance.

“How do you even know him?  He’s not part of your crowd,” Bellamy grumped.

Clarke broke off a piece of the same brownie and popped it into her mouth.  The plate was now sitting halfway between them, which felt oddly intimate.  “How do you even know who my crowd is?” she asked, and Bellamy made a noncommittal noise.  “We’ve taken the same art classes all four years.  He looks more intimidating than he actually is,” she soothed.  It felt weird to reassure the school bad boy that Lincoln, of all people, wasn’t dangerous.  Lincoln spent his summers teaching crafts at a summer camp; Bellamy Blake had a goddamn _motorcycle_.

Another slow song started, and Bellamy watched everyone dance for the first few lines, and then he turned and held out his hand.  Clarke looked at him blankly, and he raised his eyebrows.  “Come on, princess— let’s dance,” he said.

Clarke found herself slipping her hand into his and letting him tow her out to the dance floor.  People were sending them shocked looks, but Bellamy didn’t seem to mind and honestly, neither did she.  He settled his hands on her waist and she draped her arms around his neck.  His tie was a little askew, and up close he smelled like leather and motor oil.  

Feeling bold, Clarke wrapped one of the curls at the nape of his neck around her finger, and his eyes fluttered shut.  Then he smiled down at her, crooked and adorable, and her brain had just a few seconds to process that she was _dancing_ with _Bellamy Blake_ and _enjoying it_ before he glanced around.  “Let’s get out of here,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Just you and me.  Let’s go,” he said, and his hands flexed against her waist.

“What about Octavia?”

“You said yourself Lincoln is fine.  Your date is busy, and what else are you going to do?”

Clarke once again found herself taking his hand and letting him pull her along.  “Where are we going?” she asked, even though she hadn’t actually said _yes_ yet.  

Bellamy nodded to Mr. Pike and opened the doors to the soft spring breeze.  “Where do you want to go?” he said, and they drew to a stop at his motorcycle.  Bellamy handed her a helmet and she stood there stupidly, wondering if she was really about to ditch prom with a guy on a _motorcycle_.  But then she looked at him and knew, deep in her bones, that she could trust him.

“The old water tower,” she said, making her decision.  “I bet you can see for miles up there.”

Bellamy smiled and something ignited inside of her.  She climbed onto the bike behind him, her dress hiked up around her knees, and wrapped her arms around his chest.  “Ready, princess?” he asked over his shoulder and kicked the engine to life.

Clarke took one last look at the school, at the doors behind which her friends were dancing and laughing.  Then she looked back at Bellamy and that smile.  “Ready,” she confirmed.


	100. Your Chariot Awaits (II)

Clarke kicked her heels off and looked up at the water tower while Bellamy wheeled his bike into the bushes.  “You’re sure?” he asked, joining her and peering up.

“You chickening out on me, Blake?” she teased.

He swallowed and shook his head.  “Just waiting for you to start.”

Clarke busied herself twisting the skirt of her dress into a knot above her knee so it wouldn’t trip her up as she climbed.  “So you can climb up behind me and look up my dress?”

“I was thinking so I could keep you from falling and dying, but sure, I can go first if you want,” he said with a tiny wink.

“Oh, on second thought, yeah, I’m going first,” she said, and grabbed the rung to haul herself up.

Clarke had second thoughts once she was ten feet up, but Bellamy was on the ladder already and she didn’t want to bail, so she told herself not to look down and kept on going.  She reached the narrow ledge and slipped through the bars on the railing.  The wind tugged at her hair and she braced her hands on the railing.  A feeling of exuberance set in; Clarke wasn’t naturally a risk taker but this– this felt right.

Bellamy joined her and shrugged out of his jacket.  He draped it over her shoulders and looked out across the valley.  It was warm and heavy, and made her stomach curl pleasantly. “It’s pretty up here,” he said.    

“Why me?” she asked, burrowing a little deeper into his jacket, and stole a glance at him out of the corner of her eye.

“What?”  The wind ruffled his curls and he kept his eyes on the blanket of lights spread before them.

“We’ve never talked before.  Why me, and why tonight?”

“You complaining?” he asked, and she liked how his voice sounded when he was teasing her.  It was like there was years of friendship between the two of them, not just one night of reckless decisions.

“Just trying to figure you out,” she said lightly.

Bellamy shrugged and his gaze flickered towards her.  “You know who you are.  I like that.  So why’d you pick this place?”

Now it was her turn to shrug.  “I always wanted to climb this thing,” she said, and her pinky brushed against his.  Bellamy looked at their hands and didn’t move, so she turned to face him fully.  “Thanks for the jacket.  And the ride.  And— this,” she said, waving out at the open air.

“Anytime, princess,” he said, and straightened.  His eyes were dark, but the look in them was unmistakeable.  Clarke reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, and just like on the dance floor, his eyes fluttered closed like he enjoyed her touch.  

So there, on top of the world, Clarke rolled up onto her toes and pressed her lips to his.

Bellamy inhaled sharply and then his hand came to curve around her jaw, his mouth opening under hers.  His other arm eased under his jacket and wrapped around her waist, pressing them together.  Wind whipped around them and Clarke tipped her head to the side to deepen the kiss.  His tongue brushed hers and Clarke made a soft noise at the back of her throat.

Bellamy looked a little dazed as he pulled back, and then dropped another kiss to the tip of her nose before he cleared his throat.  “When’s your curfew tonight, princess?” he asked, and Clarke hoped he never said her real name again, because when he said _princess_ like that— rough and fond and just a little bit lost— something inside of her melted.

“I don’t have one,” she said with a grin.

Bellamy’s face split into a smile, broad and real.  “Then where to next?”


End file.
